


The Law of Equivalent Exchange

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ancient Greece, Angel Castiel, Angst and Feels, Biblical References, Canon Compliant, Castiel's True Form, Episode: s03e16 No Rest for the Wicked, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Episode: s04e02 Are You There God? It's Me Dean Winchester, Episode: s04e03 In the Beginning, Episode: s04e07 It's the Great Pumpkin Sam Winchester, Episode: s04e08 Wishful Thinking, Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin, Episode: s04e22 Lucifer Rising, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Episode: s06e06 You Can't Handle The Truth, Episode: s06e20 The Man Who Would Be King, Episode: s06e21 Let It Bleed, Episode: s08e02 What's Up Tiger Mommy?, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, Episode: s10e23 My Brother's Keeper, Episode: s11e04 Baby, First Kiss, First Time, Germany, Human Castiel, Immortality, M/M, Middle Ages, Mousquetaire | Musketeer, POV Castiel, Paris (City), Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 60,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And what’s the point of it?”</p><p>“Of love? There isn’t one. Loving is its own purpose.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1270 BC - 331 BC

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated first of all to all the broken Cas girls (of whatever gender), to all the despondent Destiel shippers, and to all the queerbaiting spotters; also to all the hopers of far-flung hopes. You know who you are. 
> 
> Also a tribute to Mary Renault, because, in the words of Daniel Mendelsohn, “she had shown me a picture of what I was, when I needed to see it, and had given me a myth that justified my fears and limitations. The writers we absorb when we’re young bind us to them, sometimes lightly, sometimes with iron. In time, the bonds fall away, but if you look very closely you can sometimes make out the pale white groove of a faded scar, or the telltale chalky red of old rust”. I hope the rust and the scars can somehow be perceived in this story, because it owes a great deal to her _Alexander_ novels.
> 
> And finally, to whomever remembers their dead on this day: much love. 
> 
> (Story consists of 7 chapters; all quotes credited in endnotes; favourite soundtrack, _Born to Die_ by Lana del Rey, Aston cover.)

“I thought, There goes my lord, whom I was born to follow. I have found a King.  
And, I said to myself, looking after him as he walked away, I will have him, if I die for it.”  
Mary Renault, _The Persian Boy_

 

When Michael defeats Lucifer, his cry of triumph and grief can be heard throughout the earth. Humans, of course, believe it to be an earthquake. Castiel closes his eyes, overwhelmed by his own sadness and weariness, and sees them praying; sees them making sacrifices to the sea god; sees them huddle together and wait for death. He understands their fear and their grief. He feels them within his own heart. Michael has won, and the war is now over, but too many of his brothers have died; and many more have been lost.

When the shakes abate, Castiel opens his eyes again and wills himself where he needs to be; for at that very moment, in a world much removed from Heaven’s wars, Dan, son of Enoch, son of Cain, is lying on a camel pelt, and is doing his best not to throw up. He is fourteen years old, and he’s dying. His eyes flicker for a second to the corner, to where Castiel has woven himself into the shadows, and Castiel does not move. If the boy can see him, it means his end is near. He wonders if there will be screaming, or anger. He has been around humans long enough to know that they do not take kindly to visions.

Dan, however, does not say anything. Maybe he thinks his eyes are deceiving him; or maybe he is too weak to speak. He may be too far gone, in fact, to see or think anything at all. Castiel walks into his thoughts, slowly, almost tenderly, but he does not find himself in there. Dan is thinking, in a disconnected, haphazard way, about his brother Sarid. Sarid is four years younger, and has been taken ill with the same sickness. He is all over Dan’s mind, like sunshine mirrored over water. Castiel can’t tear his gaze away from the loving detail etched in it all - Sarid smiling, Sarid playing with the kids while a nanny goat watches on in disapproval, Sarid biting his lip, his eyes welling up, as he cradles his broken arm against his chest (he’d been told not to climb the cedar tree, but when does he ever listen?). Dan may very well stand between death and life as between night and morning, but he is not afraid. No, if Dan is willing himself to stay alive is only so he can keep his younger brother safe, and Castiel frowns, because he knows Sarid will be dead come dawn. This fever is aggressive and incurable. Dan’s tribe has lost three families to it in the past month.

“What are you doing here?” says Zachariah from behind him, and Castiel blinks out of Dan’s thoughts.

“It is my duty to be here,” he says, without turning around. “They do not know it yet, but the boy’s father is dead. I just came from the battlefield. King Enoch is no more.”

“Long live king Enoch,” replies Zachariah, and while that is the standard formula, in his mouth it sounds almost mocking.

Then again, most things Zachariah says sound almost mocking. Castiel does not concern himself with it.

“This boy,” he goes on, his eyes still fixed on Dan’s clammy face, “is the next king of Nod. I have come to watch over his death.”

“And I ask you again, why?”

This time, Castiel looks back over his shoulder at Zachariah.

“Because it is my mission,” he says, surprised. “I am the angel of tears, and watching over the death of kings is my job.”

“Not this time,” says Zachariah. “This boy does not get to die.”

“I was not told it was within my powers to save him.”

“It is not.”

“I do not understand.”

“You are to collect the boy’s soul and make sure he is reborn again.” 

Castiel goes completely still. For a second, he thinks he must have heard Zachariah wrong.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“It is forbidden,” Castiel says. “It is blasphemy.”

“It is his destiny.”

“I won’t do it.”

Castiel thinks about Dan’s heaven - a racing horse is waiting for him, because Enoch may have been rich, but the entire fertile Crescent is a jubilation of camels and goats - Dan has seen horses only once, when he’s accompanied his father on a journey up North. Castiel knows he’s felt fear and awe and a desperate longing inside his heart ever since.

“Then be gone. Report back to Uriel and let him assign you a new mission.”

It is a tempting offer. What Zachariah is asking him to do - Castiel will not ask why - it is not his job to ask why - it is a terrible, terrible sin. It is _sheqet_. Dan will never see his family again; will never know peace.

Just as he’s about to nod in assent, though, Dan looks his way again. He is dark-skinned, like his father, but his eyes are bright green and there is something in them - an intelligence, a compassion - which was completely lacking in Enoch’s stern gaze. Castiel _likes_ Dan, he suddenly realizes.

“I will not leave him,” he says, and Zachariah sighs.

“You and your silly sentimentalisms,” he says, and then smirks down at Castiel. “Very well. Consider the boy your new mission.”

Zachariah disappears, and before Castiel can come to terms with what just happened, Dan’s soul walks up from his bed, leaving his body behind. He walks as gracefully as he did in life, steady and light on his feet; he is, after all, the son of a warrior. He has been training (spear, axe and sickle sword) since he was five. As he approaches Castiel, his courage does not waver. Though he has to tilt his head back, he stares up at Castiel and smiles at him. 

“You have been sitting in the corner for a long time, _adonai_ ,” he says.

“You have been sick for a long time, young lord,” Castiel replies; and then he feels around, covertly, for the boy’s mother, blesses her a with longer sleep, with sweeter dreams. Dan does not need to hear her cry over his body.

“Could you not save me?” the boy asks, and, for the first time, there is a hint of childish petulance in his voice.

“It was not God’s will,” Castiel replies, and Dan does not question this.

“I told my mother you were there, and she would not believe me,” he says instead.

“She could not see me. I was only visible to you.”

Dan seems to think this over. He looks the angel up and down, curious and unafraid.

“You look different now, though. I can see your wings.”

Without warning, he reaches out and passes his fingers on the edge of a feather, only just - but it’s enough for Castiel’s heart to jump inside his chest. No human has ever seen his wings before; no human has ever touched him before. He feels something heavy pooling in his stomach, an uneasiness of sorts.

Dan seems to understand his touch was unwelcome. He lets his hand fall again.

“Will you lead me to the Garden?”

Castiel looks down at him and hesitates. This is not the first time he speaks with a human, but there is something unsettling about this child, and he truly wishes he could give him a different answer.

“No. We have work for you, Dan, son of Enoch.”

Again, Dan just accepts this. He nods seriously, and his jaw clenches in determination. This is not about himself being an angel of the Lord, Castiel thinks. This boy is accustomed to taking orders. He who would rule must learn how to follow.

Without meaning to, he falls inside Dan’s mind again, and sees his next question before the boy can utter it. Zachariah did not give him an answer for this, but Castiel finds he knows the answer all the same. It’s not anything he has ever seen before, and he doesn’t understand what is going on, but, like Dan, he is good at taking orders. He does not question the events unfolding before him; instead, he steps back inside his own mind and waits for Dan’s question.

“My brother is sick. I heard _savta_ saying he will be dead before the morning comes. Will you come for him as well?”

“I do not need to. Wherever you go, your brother will follow, because you love each other so.”

Dan nods again, and does his best not to show how comforted he is by Castiel’s words. They are Enoch’s only surviving children, and their bond goes very deep.

Before Castiel can stop him, Dan walks back towards the other end of the tent. Sarid is sleeping soundly, his thin face barely visible by the glow of the dying fire. Castiel watches as Dan gets down on his knees and kisses his brother on the forehead. When he gets back to his feet, Castiel walks out of the shadows and stretches his wings.

“Time to go, young lord.”

Dan’s soul, bright and untarnished, reaches his hand out trustingly.

“I am yours, _adonai_. Do with me as you think best.”

# α|ω

That first time, time seems to go very slowly. Castiel has lived for millions of years, and yet the fourteen he has to wait for Dan to die again seem endless. Heaven is still broken, and his Father is gone. Castiel knows he’s not supposed to, and he doesn’t even understand why he finds such comfort in this, but he starts visiting Dan more and more often.

Of course, he is not Dan anymore. His name is Dimon now. He still lives in the land of Nod, and he still has a younger brother, Salah, but this time he is not a prince; he is a shepherd. Castiel has not chosen this life for him; Dan’s destiny moves beyond Castiel’s wishes.

And Castiel’s wishes are confused, unseeable things. He keeps thinking about the night Dan died; about the trusting way the boy looked up at him; about that unexpected gesture he still doesn’t know how to understand. Sometimes he slides back into his winged form just so he can pass his own fingers on the feather Dan has touched. It doesn’t feels the same, though.

And so Castiel walks with Dimon and Salah out in the hills. He watches their dark heads as they chat and laugh with each other. Once, he stands in front of them, still invisible, and scares away the lion coming for their sheep. Dimon dreams about the lion for a long time, after; dreams he is a powerful hunter, dreams he’s fought valiantly, saved his own life and his brother’s. But, of course, he’s just a boy of eight.

And then, at the age of fourteen years and one month, Dimon slips and falls off a cliff.

When he steps away from his body, the first thing he sees is Castiel, and, like Dan, he knows immediately that Castiel is not who he’s pretending to be (a bearded man in unassuming linen clothes).

“Am I dead?” he asks, looking up at Castiel, and Castiel nods.

“You are dead now, _yeladim_. Soon you will be reborn.”

“What happened to my brother? He was just behind me.”

“Salah is not hurt. Do not worry: I will watch over him.”

Castiel breathes in and makes his wings visible. He wants to reassure Dimon; he wants him to believe that God himself is watching over his brother; he also wants Dimon to touch his wings again. He cannot explain why, and he has no right to demand anything from this boy. He has just promised to protect the person Dimon loves most in the world, and he has lied. Salah will die within the week. The snake destined to bite him has hatched this morning.

Dimon does not walk closer to him. His green eyes stare in awe at Castiel’s white wings; he looks like he wants to fall to his knees, but is not sure that would be enough.

_Do not be afraid of me_ , Castiel wants to say; and also, _I am yours: I will always protect you_.

The words, however, never leave his lips. Dimon _should_ be afraid of him, and it is not true that Castiel will always protect him. Only just now, Castiel could have saved him from this fall - could have saved his life - but was ordered not to, and therefore he did not. He feels irrationally angry about it, but he’s trying not to let it show. The anger of a seraph is an unrestrained, violent thing, and Dimon has been through enough.

“Come with me,” says Castiel in the end, and Dimon does.

# α|ω

Castiel expected he would soon lose count of how and why his charge dies. He is but a human boy, after all. Humans die all the time. And yet - yet every time it happens Castiel feels it, deep within his heart. Every time it leaves a scar inside him.

Almost two centuries pass before the boy is even allowed to reach the age of fifteen. Castiel had hoped that seeing him grow up might have eased the knot of guilt and pain inside him, but it does not, because as the boy gets older, he is claimed by the battlefield. He is, after all, the son of a king, and a warrior at heart.

And so Castiel has to stand by and watch as the boy is stabbed, and trampled by a golden chariot; as he stays behind to help his brother and is pierced by an arrow; as he falls down the walls of Troy into the dreadful carnage below.

In Troy, Dan’s name is Doryclus, son of Priam. He has dark, curly hair still glistening from the oil his young wife has combed through it in the morning. As Castiel steps closer, he can see the golden rings glinting between the locks.

Despite the chaos of the battlefield, Doryclus feels him coming, turns his head back, only just, to gaze up at him.

“I know you,” he whispers, and Castiel stops walking, stunned.

The boy has never known him before; never remembered him. Every time they meet, he accepts the truth of Castiel’s words and asks for his brother. Nothing else.

It is perhaps a good thing Ajax the Great is the one destined to kill Doryclus, because he is so swift and brutal Castiel cannot act against it (and he’s not supposed to); instead, he instinctively takes a step back, his angel blade appearing in his hand. And then Doryclus’ soul is standing in front of him, achingly familiar, and Castiel forgets about his weapon, lets it fall back into non-being.

“Your brother is safe,” says Castiel, anticipating the boy’s question; and then he adds, despite his better judgment, “Do you know who I am?”

He can see, however, can feel inside his heart and soul, even before Doryclus answers him, that the glint of recognition the young prince felt seconds before his untimely death is now gone. Doryclus may have known who Castiel was before that; or maybe Castiel was deluding himself. In any case, now they are strangers.

“You must be Thanatos. I have seen pictures of you,” replies the boy, and even though his skin is now fair, and he has the high cheekbones of the northern princes, his green eyes are shining with the same courage, the same determination Castiel remembers in Dan’s. “Where are your wings?” he adds, and it is as if, all around them, the world stills.

Suddenly, there is no more blood, no more shouting. The sound of horses and men dying softens and disappears. Keeping his gaze in Doryclus’, Castiel extends his wings until they cover both of them, hide the sight of the slaughter around them.

The boy - in this time and place, actually a man, Castiel amends, a young warrior whose body (broken and cooling two steps behind them) still wears an armour of leather and bronze which has been taken apart and repaired far too many times - looks up and utters what Castiel recognizes to be a curse. Castiel cocks one eyebrow.

“I - I’m sorry. It’s just - I knew the gods to be wondrous, but this -”

Castiel holds his breath as Doryclus rises his hand and runs his fingers through the feathers; and, as soon as they make contact, he feels it again - something deep adjusting within himself, as if a key has found its lock. Judging from the expression of unsettled awe on the young prince’s face, he has felt it as well.

“Who are you?” he whispers. “Why do I know you?”

Castiel does not know why this boy is not allowed to die; and he suspects that, in any case, he is not allowed to share his orders with a mere mortal.

“I am yours,” he says instead. “And you are mine.”

Doryclus looks up at him, and when Castiel blesses him, the battlefield of Troy shatters in light and shadows.

# α|ω

Castiel keeps close watch on the boy after that, and is disappointed when he finds his charge does not remember him. Centuries move forward and turn on themselves, and Castiel is forced to stay his own hand as the boy dies, over and over again. And Castiel is increasingly uneasy - for the first time in his long existence, he begins to question his orders. Sometimes, when the boy is safe and happy, Castiel leaves Earth, returns to Heaven. He walks in the empty garden that is his charge’s personal heaven; he pats the black stallion which is still there, waiting patiently for a master who’s not allowed to join it. He is tempted, at other moments - mostly when the boy is about to die, and time slows, and Castiel slips into his mind without meaning to, shares the boy’s death, his pain, his fear, his fury - to call upon Zachariah, to ask when, exactly, Enoch’s son torture will end.

But he never does.

His job is to obey.

And, therefore, Castiel walks the busy streets of Athens, and he watches, in fondness and worry, as Dan - well: Diodorus - and his brother Simonides make their way to the gymnasium. He goes in after them, sits on the steps behind a couple of men to watch the boys wrestle and run and throw their javelins.

“The truce will not hold,” says the older man in front of him, a bit mournfully.

“Let’s not discuss politics, Theocritus. There, look at Nikon’s sons - aren’t they a marvel?”

Castiel lets his mind slip out of the old man’s (he is thinking about his fields and his house being burned to the ground; he fears and mistrusts the Spartans, and he is right in doing so) to follow the other man’s gaze. He is looking directly at Diodorus and his brother as they circle around each other in the sand, their hands bound in strips of white fabric.

“What about your young boy? Where is he?” asks the old man, after a while, and the other man scoffs.

“Linus is a cock and a weasel,” he says, and the old man laughs.

“So he left you? After all the money you spent on him?”

Diodorus suddenly steps forward - he barrels into his brother headfirst, tries to trip him. It’s a risky strategy, but his only choice. Simonides is only twelve, but he’s already a full head taller than his brother. He hesitates for a second despite his trainer’s encouragement - he is, perhaps, unwilling to hit his older brother, or wrestling does not come easily to him - and that time is enough for Diodorus to tackle him to the ground and sit astride on top of him.

“Magnificent,” says the old man in front of him. “Beautiful technique.”

Castiel has to agree. Eight hundreds years have passed since the young king of Nod has died in his royal tent, and yet he is standing right here, in front of him - still as brave, as quick-thinking, as generous, both in victory and defeat. Because Diodorus is laughing now - he tousles his brother’s hair, and then he stands up, offering a hand to Simonides, pulling him to his feet. For a moment, he is obscured to Castiel’s sight by a crowd of boys who have come forward to congratulate him, but it doesn’t matter, because Castiel can feel the boy’s soul - wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, Castiel feels the steady beating of the boy’s heart, can feel the warmth of their bond wash over himself.

It is a moment before he realizes that the two men in front of him have left their seats. They are now talking to Diodorus, and Diodorus is shaking their head at them and laughing. The old man gives him an affectionate pat on the back, and then they all move away - the men pass under the gymnasium doors, while Diodorus and Simonides disappear towards the baths.

Castiel closes his eyes and remains where he is, lulled by the pleasant warmth of the setting sun and by the steady, joyous cries of a group of younger boys who are now play-fighting in the sand. He is so distracted, in fact, that he realizes someone is standing in front of him only when he feels their shadow over his face.

He opens his eyes and sees Diodorus looking down at him.

“You did not congratulate me on my victory,” he says, in a playful, reproachful tone, and Castiel can only stare up at him, because this is not normal - no mortal should be able to see him, and Diodorus will not die today, is not close enough to the veil to perceive him.

This has _never_ happened before. This does _not_ happen. When an angel chooses to cloak himself, no mortal may gaze upon him.

“Does my beauty make you speechless, old man?”

Castiel shakes his head, tries to clear it. He knows how the game works. He’s been living in Athens, roaming its streets, haunting its temples, for almost a century. He knows the city and its people inside and out. Still, the words are heavy on his tongue, because the boy - the boy should not be able to _see_ him, let alone _talk_ to him.

“Why wouldn’t it? You are handsome enough.”

Diodorus laughs and sits down next to him. He’s wearing a short white tunic, and his skin is glistening with oil. Castiel can smell it without trying - marjoram, with a hint of clove. Muscle repair and soothing of the pain. Diodorus’ trainer is a smart man.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have someone to celebrate with?”

There is a shout from the arena. One of the boys was overenthusiastic. His friend will have a black eye tomorrow.

Diodorus tuts in annoyance.

“Linus too old for this. It gives him an unfair advantage, the little bastard.”

He looks at the arena for a moment longer, but it soon becomes clear that the injured boy will not suffer any permanent damage. He turns back at Castiel instead.

“I have not taken a lover yet. My father died two years ago, and I am too busy looking after my family to indulge in parties or politics. But war is upon us, and I need an armour. Would you have a drink with me?”

Though Castiel knows all of this already, it is still an unexpectedly frank way of doing things. Diodorus must be desperate - he is not from a prominent tribe, and if he does not manage to secure his equipment before the war starts again, he will be forced into the navy. Castiel knows it won’t come to that - Diodorus will make a bet involving a good-looking girl and a horse two months from now, and he will then fall from said horse, breaking his neck - but he still dislikes the idea of the boy being uneasy and frightened. If he wants an armour, he will get one.

“I would,” he says, and Diodorus smiles. “Although, you might just as easily said yes to the man you were talking to earlier.”

Castiel does not know why he said this. It seems petty, makes him sound like he is jealous, and of course he isn’t. Why should he be? It is not like that between them, not at all. They do not have, in fact, _anything_ between them, because Castiel is not at liberty to stray for his orders and this human boy does not remember him; never has.

Diodorus’ smile widens.

“Meliton wasted all his money on Linus, the fool. And I like you better, anyway. I like blue-eyed men. And women, of course,” he adds.

“There is nothing special about blue eyes. They are uncommon, that’s all. If you had been born in the land of the Hyperboreans, you would like brown eyes.”

Diodorus was about to stand up, but he freezes mid-movement and looks down at Castiel in fascination.

“You have traveled to the North?”

“Many times.”

“Is it true the sun never sets? And that people are nine feet tall?”

“During the summer, the sun never sets,” says Castiel. “But during the winter, it never rises. You would not like it there.”

Diodorus makes an unhappy sigh and leads the way out of the gymnasium.

“It’s not like I’ll have a chance to find out.”

As they walk towards Diodorus’ favourite tavern, as they start on a meal of warm bread and pigeon and watered wine, the boy bombards him with questions about his supposed travels. 

Castiel answers all of them as precisely as he can, and he realizes too late, when the moon is long risen and Diodorus is already a bit drunk, that he may have said too much. Nobody in this time and age has traveled so widely; no human could know so much about the world.

“You’re pulling my leg,” Diodorus says, after Castiel has finished explaining how the nomads in the steppes hunt - how their shamans can push themselves in the mind of an eagle and track the herds from the sky.

“I - yes, I believe I am,” says Castiel, because Diodorus is right, and there is no way anyone in this city would know about half the things Castiel has been saying to him.

“It doesn’t matter. I like you anyway,” Diodorus states, his eyes shiny from the wine, and then he’s sliding closer to Castiel, is putting his hand, a bit tentatively, on Castiel’s thigh, and Castiel knew this was coming, he’s known this would happen since Diodorus walked up to him in the gymnasium, and yet he doesn’t know how to respond.

Nobody has ever touched him before, no one but this boy, right here; while he knows perfectly well that some of his brothers choose to have dalliances with humans when they walk the Earth, Castiel has never seen the point of it, has never understood -

\- until now.

When Diodorus’ mouth brushes against his jaw, everything suddenly starts to make sense, and at the same time, everything loses all meaning. Castiel remains perfectly still as Diodorus licks his way towards his lips, and all of a sudden, it is too much - way too much. He can’t bear it, none of it - can’t allow himself to be so close to a human, can’t follow his orders anymore if it means the boy is going to keep dying, and, most of all, he can’t - he doesn’t understand what this is, this thing which is wrenching his heart out of his chest - it is too much, it is -

“I can’t do it anymore,” he says, coming into being in front of Zachariah.

His superior doesn’t even raise his eyes from the document he’s reading.

“It is your duty, Castiel,” he answers. “Will you disobey me?”

And this is a stupid question, because, of course, Castiel will not disobey. He cannot disobey. Obeyance is embedded into his very soul - it is the reason he was created; the purpose of his entire existence. Zachariah is not only his commander; he is his kin. The Host comes first; anything else is unthinkable.

“I will not,” Castiel whispers, and he returns to Earth, his heart heavy with something he does not quite understand.

He chooses to arrive very late, and finds Diodorus already asleep in the room his shares with his brother. He is dreaming of them, Castiel notices, of the brief moment they shared at the tavern, and this does not make him feel better. Gritting his teeth, he conjures a complete set of weapons out of thin air and sets it down next to Diodorus’ bed. Unable to resist, he reaches out and traces a horse in the middle of the shield.

Diodorus does not wake up, and two months later, when he dies, he does not recognize him. Castiel is both hurt and relieved.

# α|ω

Sparta does indeed violate the terms of the truce, and after the Spartans come the Persians, and after that the fascinating might of Alexander washes over Greece like a fever dream.

Castiel doesn’t interfere. He watches as his charge lives and dies and is reborn again; he watches the young Macedonian king destroy the city of Thebes and slaughter its citizens; and he watches as two young brothers, Dion and Sophos, volunteer to follow Alexander deep into Persia.

Castiel is not worried about them. He knows they will both survive for months to come (knows they will soon be reborn). What makes him sad is that he knows why they signed up - they are both smart and curious, fascinated by the world around them. Dion is hoping for adventure, and Sophos wants to see the East, become a geographer. They are both enthralled by Alexander, and Castiel understands this - who wouldn’t? Alexander is something else. Castiel has passed through his tent, has stood in the shadows as he was talking to his Companions. He can see the light of the divine all over the Alexander; through his eyes, an angel’s eyes, the young king is glowing with it. His fair hair looks almost on fire.

So, well, Castiel knows Alexander will fulfill his own wishes (inasmuch as it is possible for humans to do so, naturally), and he knows Dion and Sophos will not. They will both die at the battle of Gaugamela. They will not see Babylon, and they will not see the true East - the large, empty desert that is Parthia; the slow ascent towards the Hindu-Kush; India.

This saddens him when it should not. He is an angel of the Lord. The hopes and feelings of one human boy are a matter of complete indifference to him.

So it makes no sense, really, that after Dion dies, a Persian soldier’s sword deep inside his chest, Castiel beats his wings, once, and transports them both thousands of miles away.

Dion is a soldier; has been a soldier for almost a thousand years. He didn’t blink when Castiel appeared, and he was not afraid when he felt the ground disassemble beneath his feet. When he can see again, though, he draws in a very sharp breath.

“Zeus’ beard,” he swears. “Where are we?”

“In the Paropamisadae,” Castiel replies. “Alexander and his army will march through this pass in three years’ time.”

Dion draws his short cloak more firmly around his body. It is an endearing, instinctive gesture, and a completely unnecessary one. He is but a soul now, and he cannot feel the wind or the cold. Still, he hides his hands inside the cloak and he allows his gaze to caress the vast landscape below them.

“Is it endless?” he asks, and then he frowns at himself. “I did not mean that. Of course it is not endless.”

“You are allowed to be awed by it,” replies Castiel. “It is indeed most wondrous among my Father’s creations.”

He does not watch it, though. He does not watch the snowy peaks around them, those gigantic mountains whose scale can barely be comprehended by a human mind. He does not watch the thick forests which hug their steep slopes. He does not watch the way the sun is painting an illusion of pink and orange in the sky, how those colours are seeping on the snow below. This, right in front of them, is infinity; is their Father’s work and masterpiece, and yet Castiel tears his gaze away from it, and watches Dion instead.

Dion is almost twenty. His body is now a man’s, and a life of battle has hardened both his muscles and his profile. He wears his hair a bit long, like Alexander, because every young man in Greece now prefers this style: they all love their king to the death. Where Alexander is blond, though, Dion’s hair is a deep brown. His skin, now healed from every wound and unaffected by the cold, is so pale as to be almost translucent. His green eyes are focused on the sight in front of him, and Castiel almost thinks he has forgotten all about him - he has, himself, forgotten where they are, because the man in front of him is far from a stranger - Castiel has cradled this soul in his hands for almost a thousand years, he knows it well, he - when Dion speaks.

“Why did you bring me here? Is this Heaven?”

“No. This is the world you lived in. The world you will be reborn into,” says Castiel, and then he hesitates before adding another word, despite his better judgement, a small, almost inaudible, “ _philtate_.”

It means _most beloved_. It is the word Alexander uses with Hephaestion, and it is the word Dion used with a soldier from Pella, a young man who died in Egypt. Castiel has watched them kiss, more than once, has been trying to learn, perhaps, what love is, and how humans can feel it and give it so very freely.

He still does not know if how he feels towards Dion is love. There is no way of knowing. No angel has ever known true love before. He is a soldier, first and foremost; an instrument of justice and revenge. He should not be concerned about such things, and yet - yet he has known this boy for a thousand years, he has fought with him, and bled with him, and wept with him. He is not sure where the boy’s soul ends and his own begins. He doesn’t know anything anymore. He hopes that in using the word, the feeling it expresses will be made clear inside his heart.

Dion’s breath catches.

He turns to look at Castiel, seems to look past his current vessel, which is not a vessel at all - Castiel has never needed to be visible, and therefore he has simply constrained his natural shape in something more familiar, less threatening, without bothering to possess an actual human body - raises his green eyes to Castiel’s blue ones.

“When I look at you, “ says, slowly, “I see a lion. I see a shield with a red horse painted upon it. I smell summer and rich wine. Why do I feel these things?”

“Do you remember anything?” says Castiel, his own voice much lower than usual.

Dion keeps looking.

“I have seen you before,” he says, and then he adds, sounding more certain, “I have _seen_ you before.”

He takes a step forward, and, without warning, he presses a hand on Castiel’s chest; raises it to Castiel’s face, passes his thumb over Castiel’s lower lip.

“You have wings. Show me your wings,” he says, urgently, and Castiel looks back at him (those green eyes, now alive with awe and exhilaration, will definitely be his undoing) for only a second before giving in to Dion’s request.

There is a soft noise when the huge wings explode on either side of Castiel’s shoulders, and Dion curses out loud at the sight; his fingers tighten on Castiel’s jaw, and then, before Castiel even knows it’s happening, Dion leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

“You are the god who walks inside my dreams,” he murmurs, against Castiel’s mouth, before kissing him again, “You are the one who watches over me. You are -”

But whoever else he thinks Castiel is gets lost inside Castiel’s mouth, because, after the initial shock, Castiel starts kissing back. It is - it is like flying, he decides, which makes no sense at all, because they are standing exactly where they have been standing for the past ten minutes, and nothing has changed, and what they are doing is a primal biological urge, an outward sign of affection which encourages the stimulation of certain nerves, the production of certain hormones - nothing else - and Castiel does not have nerves, does not have hormones - this body is an illusion, a trick - there is no reason, none at all, why this should have any effect on him -

\- and this must _not_ have any effect on him. This man is his charge. Castiel’s only mission is to carry his soul to the next woman who will give birth to him. Castiel can see her in his mind’s eye - she is a young, fiery thing, and tonight is her wedding night. Castiel is here, and there, and everywhere - he can feel Dion’s lips on his own, Dion’s hands on his hips, holding him tightly - he can feel Dan inside Dion, can feel all of them - a thousand years of extraordinary boys - the same bright soul, untarnished by the passing of Time - he can hear the noise from the wedding party quiet down as the bride and groom make their way to their room - he can see everything else as well - the mountains around them, and the ocean beyond them, and Alexander taking his armour off, shooing away his personal physician, ordering him to take care of his men first - Castiel is not human, never has been, and this kiss is dangerous - emotions lead to doubt, and doubt to disobedience - he cannot - he will _not_ -

Unable to help himself, he brings his hands up, cups Dion’s face; and then he shoves him away, hard, pushes him into the light, and Dion falls backward, into the new life which is waiting for him.


	2. 330 BC - 1636 AD

After that, Castiel never gives the boy a chance to remember. He cloaks himself with every invisibility spell he knows, he stays clear of the boy until the exact time of his death, and then he never talks to him - he just walks up to his charge, blesses him and watches him as he disappears in a halo of bright light.

He hates himself for not giving the boy any comfort, or an explanation; for not reassuring him about his brother’s fate; and yet, he has no choice. He is terrified about the bond he feels forming between them. He does not know who this boy is, and why is it so important he stay alive. He knows his brothers can feel (he is still half sick with Michael’s grief, with Lucifer’s pain - like every single soldier of the Host, he can taste the Archangels’ plight in the back of his throat, every hour of every day - it is a constant, never-ending torture -) but he also knows none of them can love.

The night after Domitius (a young, idealistic senator, and a veteran of the Gallic wars) is stabbed in the streets on the orders of a political rival, Castiel returns to Heaven again. This time, he goes to find Uriel.

As soon as he steps into his commander’s office, he feels calmer, more in control. Uriel has led the Garrison for the past ten thousand years. He will know what is to be done.

“Castiel,” he says, wrenching his gaze away from the huge map on the wall. “This is a surprise.”

His smile is warm and soft, and Castiel latches on to it like a dying man.

“Brother,” he says, “I have come to you for counsel.”

“How is young Domitius?” Uriel asks, taking a step towards Castiel.

“Dead,” is the blunt answer. “And Drusus is but a spark in his mother’s womb.”

Uriel is not fooled.

“Is this _care_ I hear in your voice? Worry for the boy’s fate?”

Castiel does not answer.

“He is but human, brother.”

“I know that.”

Uriel frowns at him, and Castiel averts his eyes.

“I know this task is hard on you,” Uriel says, after a moment of silence. “But I promise you, it is a noble and meaningful task.”

Castiel can feel the question raising to his lips, and forces it down. It is not his job to know why, not his job to -

“There is a bond between the two of you. We acknowledge that. We accept that. And we will not break this bond, not until it will become necessary to do so.”

_Not until it will become necessary to do so_ ; the sound of it is dust and bitter ashes in Castiel’s mouth.

“How long?”

“A while longer.”

This could mean just about anything. Castiel is now feeling worse than ever, and he can’t decide what is upsetting him - the thought that the bond between him and Domitius will one day be broken, or the fact that it exists at all. He can still feel the cold, rusty blades which killed the young senator on his own skin, is still sick with the pain of it - this should not be.

“You care too much, brother. You always have,” says Uriel, and the affection in his voice becomes a warning as he adds, “But, as your young friend would say, _ne quid nimis_. Remember that.”

And just like that, the meeting is over. Castiel blinks, and finds he is back in Rome - Domitius’ body is still lying where he left it, face down on the cobbled street, a pool of dark blood staining the elegant clothes.

Castiel knows Domitius’ true self is no longer there, but he still experiences a groundless, irrational pain in seeing his friend’s body broken and abandoned -

His friend’s body.

_Are_ they friends, though?

They are not. The bond between them is too deep for friendship, and, at the same time, not nearly deep enough.

# α|ω

A thousand years pass before Castiel trusts himself to talk to his charge again. A blink of an eye, and yet a whole eternity of pain and loss.

He was not planning on talking to David at all, but no one should bury their father alone. Castiel does not always understand humanity, but he understands that much. Which is why, after having followed David in the dark and empty streets of London (the young man slips and swears as he pushes the heavy cart, but Castiel remains a few steps behind, invisible and unremembered), he finally decides to walk up to him, puts a hand on his shoulder.

David doesn’t turn around.

“You should not touch me,” he says. “This is my father you see burning; and my younger brother is now too sick to walk.”

“Dying does not scare me,” Castiel replies, and David turns his head to glance at him.

The Black Death has killed thousands of people already; most of those who are left are too desperate to care. They sit in the streets, their eyes empty, boarded-up windows of a ruined house. Sometimes, they dance, but there is no joy in their dance; and even when they have sex on the altar of the big cathedrals, their gaze is vacant. But David’s green eyes are not empty; they are not vacant. There is such love in them (David, of course, would call it pain) that Castiel feels the weight of it on his own shoulders.

“ _I will fear no evil_ ,” David breathes, almost mockingly, and then looks away again, tries to ignore, perhaps, the sickly sweet smell of burning human flesh.

“Nor should you.”

Castiel’s hand is still on David’s shoulder. He touched him instinctively, and now he doesn’t know if the gesture was appropriate, if he should end it.

“Do you think there is a Heaven?”

“I know there is one.”

“You _know_. What does it look like, then?”

Castiel has been to his charge’s personal garden so many times, he doesn’t even have to stop and think about it.

“There are trees. Tall cedars, and pomegranate trees, bleeding with fruits. Their taste is sweeter than anything you have ever tasted. A black horse with a black mane paces up and down in front of them, and waits for his rider.”

David swallows.

“I like horses,” he says, his eyes misting over. “Old Tom used to have one up at the mill. Would let me ride it when I was a kid.”

He is on the verge of tears now. Castiel knows he is remembering happier times - the man now burning in front of them was a blacksmith, and David would hang around the shop even on the Sunday, passing his fingers on the weapons. Whenever they played, his brother was always Lancelot; David, Arthur. Castiel had watched them sometimes, had wondered at the ingenuity of children. How was that fun, pretending to be two people who had betrayed each other, had had swords at each other’s throats?

Then again, Castiel had _met_ Arthur. It was entirely possible that David and Simon had been told Arthur’s story in a different way.

It is also quite difficult to understand how memories work. What David is remembering now are happy moments, and yet they are making him even more pained. Without planning to, without choosing to even do it, Castiel lets his hand slide, takes David’s right hand in his, laces their fingers together.

“There is no shame in feeling such pain; in crying for a life lost, be it your own or your father’s.”

David tightens his fingers over Castiel’s and shakes his head.

“I’ve seen so many people dying - it’s like I can’t even care anymore. Like I’m too far gone even for that.”

“You know that’s not true. You do care. You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.”

Castiel spoke without thinking, and as soon as the words leave his lips, he wishes he could take them back. It was unkind, he thinks; unnecessary.

David lets go of his hand, turns around. Dawn has not yet broken, and his face his obscured by the blazing fire.

“And what’s the point of it?”

“Of love?” Castiel replies, taken aback by David’s sudden belligerency. “There isn’t one. Loving is its own purpose.”

“Great,” says David, and, just like that, he’s gone from angry to broken again. “Really fucking great.”

“It should be,” says Castiel, a bit uncertainly, and then his eyes find the drops of blood blossoming at the corner of David’s mouth, and it’s like the ground gives way from under him - and it doesn’t make any sense - Castiel knows perfectly well David will die tomorrow, knows David is sick - and yet - and _yet_ -

David notices Castiel’s gaze and brings his thumb up, cleaning the blood off.

“Yeah, I’m sick. I know. People get sick. People die,” he says, coldly; and then his eyes flicker, for a moment, behind Castiel, and something hardens within them. “But you know that already, don’t you? You being a fucking angel, and all?”

Castiel is completely and utterly shocked.

“How - do you - do you remember me?” he asks.

“ _Remember_ you? I can see your fucking _wings_. Neat trick, that.”

Castiel stares at him. He’s been thinking, all this time, that this bond between them only cut one way - that this mortal man is the one seeping into him, contaminating his blessed immortality with human feelings and human weakness; but now he suddenly realizes David has been changed as well. His eyes are keener; his spirit braver. What he’s doing right now, for instance, is sheer madness. Spying on an angel’s true form; refusing to kneel before him and worship him. Castiel is forced to see his own itch for disobedience in David’s cheek, and is selfish enough that the thought pleases him.

“So, why are you here? You gonna tell me why God is allowing this to happen? Why he’s killing everyone? You have some big answer for me, angel of death?”

David is pinning him down with his fiery green gaze. He’s closed his hands into fists, as if there is anything he can do against Castiel, as if he can fight a seraph - and, for the blink of an eye, Castiel is about to tell David everything. His orders, and how difficult it is to follow them. How the centuries have bound them together more strongly than two beings have ever being bound before. How deeply Castiel wishes he could spare him this pain. Everything. And then he pushes the crazy impulse down, lowers his head.

He can’t.

He is not allowed to.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

When David starts to walk away, Castiel doesn’t follow him.

“I love you,” he says tentatively, a mere whisper, after David’s lone figure has disappeared down the dirty street.

He doesn’t know - has no way of knowing - if there’s any truth to these words, which is why it would be unfair to impose them upon David. All he knows is that right now, when the night is so dark around him - his charge on the brink of death, yet again; his charge walking away from him, angry and disappointed and in pain - walking back to his brother when Castiel knows he will not find him alive - right now there is seemingly no light, no purpose for anything, and Castiel can’t breathe. 

It is always darker before the dawn, these people say, but dawn seems to be a very long time coming.

David is alone and unhappy, and Castiel can’t bear it. He wishes he could die, instead, and then hates himself for the selfish ambition, because what would become of his charge without him? Perhaps, he should wish they could both live, that they could both find happiness, but happiness, like love, is a foreign concept to an angel.

And he doesn’t know if this is love. He is unmoored by what he just told David - that loving is its own purpose. Because if that were true, and if Castiel could love, then he should be free of this pain; of this constant torture. 

Castiel is so distracted by this thought that he doesn’t notice the young witch tracing protective wards on the grounds around herself a few streets away - he does not intervene when the ritual goes wrong and the Hellhounds come to claim her. His eyes remain on the street down which David has long disappeared. He wishes David would come back - wishes he could go after him - because he is immortal and eternal, and yet the idea of waiting twenty more years to talk to David again is more than he can bear.

# α|ω

It takes much longer than twenty years to break the young woman; to twist her soul beyond recognition. Alastair uses every tool in his arsenal - he uses knives and hammers and strength and kindness and persuasion. He carves this new demon out of the woman’s soul like a sculptor works on marble and clay. Almost a century has passed before he even begins to be satisfied with his work, and another century before he finally sets his scalpel down and smiles at his creation.

The demon does not have a shape yet, but Alastair remembers what the girl looked like. Her parents had called her Flann because of her red hair, and she had been a mean, hateful young woman. She had made the deal because she’d been desperate to curse his sister - kill her and take her husband from her.

Alastair would have admired her for it if the young man in question had not been a total and utter moron.

Still, he likes to think of himself as something of a romantic, indulgent towards the foolishness of youth, and this is why he calls his new daughter Ruby.

“You will go to France,” he tells her, “and look for a young man by the name of Stéphane Charleville. You will not be seen, and you will not contact him in any way, but you will watch him. You will learn about him. You will come know all about him.”

“It will be done,” Ruby says. “What else?”

“After he dies, he will be reborn. You will find the child and you will keep watching him. He will grow into a man, and then die. And once again, he will be reborn. And once again, you will find this new child and keep watch over him.”

If Ruby is surprised by this, she doesn’t let it show. Alastair has trained her well.

“Anything else, sir?”

Alastair pretends to think for a moment.

“He has an older brother. Damien. You are not to go near him, for any reason.”

Again, Ruby does not seem curious, but Alastair wants to make himself clear. He walks up to her until he can whisper into her ear, and as he does so, he grabs her wrist so tight he breaks her bones.

“Be unsubtle - be seen - go anywhere near Damien Charleville, and a force unlike any you have ever know will crash down upon you. All the suffering you endured at my hands is nothing compared to the pain which will end your life.”

“Yes, sir,” says Ruby again, and next, she disappears.

Alastair turns upon himself in the now empty room and smiles.

“Bring it on, you winged bastards,” he says quietly. “Bring it the fuck on.”

# α|ω

Damien Charleville is leaning against the fireplace in his brother’s room and is pretending to be bored. Stéphane is a student in the newly created Department of Greek of the Sorbonne, and every night he stays up with his friends drinking and smoking and holding self-important, complicated speeches about self-important, complicated things.

Damien is not impressed. As a dragoon, he has survived several battles, and he knows the difference between life and death without the need to discuss the finer points with a glass of cheap wine in his hands. Still, he enjoys his brother’s company, and (occasionally) there are girls to be met here. Serving maids looking for a fun night out, tavern wenches, and the like. Not tonight, though.

Castiel is standing on the other side on the fireplace and is slipping in and out of Damien’s consciousness. It is a habit by now - he does not even notice he’s doing it. He knows Damien has seen him, because now his charge nearly always sees him - Castiel has enjoyed numerous cattish fights between the brothers - Damien turning around after Castiel has melted in the shadows, insisting he _did_ see someone, that there was someone right fucking there, and Stéphane pursing his lips in his customary _I’m sure you did, I’m sure there was_ face.

And then there are moments like tonight, when Damien assumes everyone else can see Castiel as well, and doesn’t suspect any foul play, and everything is peaceful and domestic and Castiel basks in the warmth of it; moments when he can almost imagine -

“What do you think of this horseshit?” Damien asks him, startling him out his reverie.

“Your brother makes some valid points.”

“Right.”

Stéphane is twenty-one, but in Damien’s eyes, he will always be twelve. Their parents died a long time ago, so this is perhaps inevitable; Castiel knows that, despite the deep love the brothers have for each other, not everything is well. Damien resents Stéphane for forcing him to give up on his youth and become a father to him; Stéphane is tired of being considered a petulant child. He’s started to court his tutor’s daughter, after all - lovely Julie Moreau - and hopes he will marry her in the spring. He is as much of a man as his brother is.

Castiel has been watching his charge’s brother for a while now, and has come to be wary of him. Naturally, his soul is always the same - it belongs to a young man who is good and brave and constantly striving to help others - but it has a tinge of darkness, as well. Unlike Damien’s soul, Stéphane’s has a bitter, unholy taste. Castiel has never seen the likes of it, and he doesn’t know what to make of the fact.

“They are children, and they are drunk on peace,” Damien scoffs, trying, and failing, to sound angry, “Peace never lasts.”

Castiel glances at him. Damien is still haunted by his memories of Herbsthausen - still has nightmares about it, despite Castiel’s best efforts.

“Have you served?” Damien adds, turning to look at Castiel.

It is always so easy to think that his charge actually remembers him - it happens more and more, after all, that he can see past Castiel’s tricks, that he bumps into Castiel in the street, that he talks to him - after the defeat at Herbsthausen, Castiel had gone to find Damien, had found him huddled behind the corpse of his horse, almost delirious with blood loss and horror, and had held him in his arms all through the night. It had been too risky to heal him - the French commanders would have thought him a deserter - and therefore Castiel had fixed only his life-threatening injuries before sending him on his way again.

It has been a foolish, in a way, to show up again tonight, but Castiel has been sharing his life with this man for more than fifteen centuries. He knows him. He knows that despite his bravery and his skill and experience as a soldier, he hates war - Castiel knows a massacre such as the one in Herbsthausen will have clouded his vision as well as his reasoning. Damien will not recognize him, not in this way.

Still, it’s always a disappointment. It’s difficult (unfair) to start from scratch every time.

“I did,” he says, and this is weak on his part, but he knows Damien will like him more if he thinks he’s a soldier as well. “I was in Nördlingen.”

“So you killed that bastard Mercy. Good.”

“Well, not me personally. But, yes.”

The weight is always there. The need to be close to this man, the uneasiness about this destiny of his - the profound wish that he would just be alright. Castiel is still reluctant to call it love. As an angel, he is separated from the world - right now, for instance, he does not feel the January wind oozing in from the half-broken window, nor the warmth of the fire on his left. He drank some of Stéphane’s cheap wine, but he could not taste it. And while he cannot tear his gaze away from Damien’s attractive, regular features - while his eyes will sometimes follow the freckles on Damien’s neck as they disappear under the collar of his soldier’s shirt - he does not feel, does not understand, not fully, this urge his charge sometimes has in their most unguarded moments - does not understand the desperation in the few kisses he has received during the past centuries.

He is starting to want to, though.

Damien is looking at him as well, now. He is frowning a bit - he is not trying to understand where he’s seen Castiel before, because he doesn’t remember ever having seen Castiel before. Rather, he is struggling with his conscience, and wondering if he’s drunk enough to make a pass at the handsome stranger at his brother’s party. If it will get him into trouble (into Hell). If it will get him beaten up.

Castiel knows Damien is unwilling and unable to understand this part of himself. This does not surprise him. Ever since the fall of Rome, the Church has taken over, has imposed a whole series of ridiculous rules about the contact between men.

If Castiel had the energy to care and the will to disobey, he would return to Heaven and demand Zachariah did something about it. However, he doesn’t have either, because he knows what the answer would be: a small, sanctimonious _It’s necessary_ , or some other inanity.

_Inanity_.

Castiel frowns. He cannot believe he referred to his brothers’ opinions with such a term, even in the privacy of his own mind. The spirit of the times must be starting to rub off on him.

Feeling suddenly rebellious, he decides his own feelings do not matter. He doesn’t understand them; will never understand them. But it is his job to make Damien happy; to keep him safe and make him smile until the next time he has to die (in exactly fourteen days, six hours, twenty-three minutes and four seconds).

Keeping his eyes on Damien, he smiles at him and winks. Then he walks out of the room, taking great care to brush against Damien’s front on his way to the door.

The world outside Stéphane’s room is beautiful. There is a layer of thick, untouched snow in the streets, and the light of the gas lamps bounces off the shiny icicles suspended from the windows and balconies. Someone, somewhere, is playing a dulcimer despite the late hour. Castiel recognizes the refrain of an old ballad.

“I live, I die, I burn, I drown,” says Damien, hugging him from behind; evidently he has recognized the song as well. “ _Bordel_ , it’s cold.”

Castiel turns around in his arms and plants a kiss on his lips before taking his hand.

“Follow me,” he says, and they both walk in the darkness, their steps softened by the snow, until they reach a silent alley, well away from the student district.

“No prying eyes here,” says Castiel, and Damien smiles at him.

“Still fucking cold, though.”

“Not for long. Keep your eyes closed, will you?”

“Why?”

“Promise me you will not open your eyes.”

“I promise,” Damien replies, and now he seems intrigued, his green eyes dancing with mischief.

“Promise me on your brother’s life,” Castiel insists, and Damien hesitates.

He looks down at Castiel, his expression somehow troubled, and suddenly Castiel understands what it is, exactly, that he’s asking him to do. His first concern had been for Damien’s safety and well being (it seems outlandish, even now, especially now, perhaps, to assume Damien will not be harmed by accidental contact with Castiel’s true form), but the longer he has to consider this, pinned under Damien’s attentive gaze, the more he understands it is a lot to ask. This man is a loner and a soldier, and he is about to commit what he thinks is a mortal sin with a total stranger. Damien has known pain before; closely and intimately. For all he knows, Castiel could be about to rob him - to hurt him - even to kill him. Castiel has no right, really, to demand this level of trust from someone who, despite all they have between them, is seeing him for the first time.

This whole thing is an exceptionally ill-conceived notion, Castiel thinks. He remembers a friend of Stéphane’s - the second son of an impoverished duke and young virtuoso of poetry - an attractive lad who’d been spouting Catullus’ choicest verses for his friends’ amusement ( _\- in fact, his arse is both cleaner and nicer: since it has no teeth!_ ). He has been watching Damien, and Damien has watched him back. They could be well suited to each other. 

So maybe Castiel should call this off. After all, this jealousy he’s feeling is unfair; demeaning, even. 

Yes, he should call this off.

He really should. 

And yet, the seconds pass, and Castiel does not move. He remains exactly where he is, his hands on Damien’s hips, his thumbs inching their way under the rough fabric of Damien’s shirt, his face (a straight, patrician nose; blue eyes; slightly chapped lips) betraying nothing of his inner turmoil.

“I do,” Damien says, after a very long moment. “I promise on my brother’s life that I will not open my eyes.”

The words are almost visible in the cold air. Caught by an unnamed and unnameable feeling, Castiel swallows them down, and then he leans forward, forces them back inside Damien’s mouth as they kiss. Damien brings his hands up, one around Castiel’s waist, the other fisted in Castiel’s hair - but he doesn’t break his promise. His eyes are squeezed shut, and after another thirty second, Castiel unfolds his wings.

The change in temperature is immediately noticeable.

“What the -” Damien starts, but Castiel presses a hand over his eyes.

“You promised,” he says. “You swore.”

Damien nods, tilts his face down again, seeks out Castiel’s mouth, blindly, desperately.

Castiel will never be used to what this does to him, even though he has been kissed like this before - he remembers every single time he has pressed himself against this extraordinary man, against his soul - knows these kisses will both _fill_ a void and _create_ a void deep inside himself - they will hurt him and cut him open and at the same time they are as necessary as life itself -

Damien’s hands suddenly go lower, cup Castiel through his pants, and Castiel’s breath catches in his mouth. This has never happened before, and it seems to make things worse, because it does not satiate the hunger inside him: it intensifies it. It robs Castiel of his reason and caution; it makes him dangerous.

_Is this what dying feels like?_ he wonders, but cannot focus on the thought. _I see Death coming, and I have no philosophy_ , he thinks, but then the feeling cuts too deep, and Castiel cannot allow it. If he should lose control, he may hurt Damien.

He pushes Damien’s hand away, licks inside his mouth to silence his objections, fiddles with the laces of Damien’s breeches, and yet, ignoring his own incomprehensible needs, he does it as slowly and delicately as he can, because this man is a marvel and a masterpiece, and he is putting his trust in Castiel, despite not knowing who he is, despite not remembering him at all; and this is, must be, everything. Damien has seen too much life and too much war; Castiel is suddenly desperate to make him happy.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, and Damien lets out a long breath.

“Touch me,” he says, at once. “I want to feel you on me - inside me -”

Castiel feels himself tremble at the words. He wants that, more than anything, but he can’t. What they are doing right now is bad enough. Knowing one another, in its truest meaning, is a sacred act - Castiel will not impose himself on this man under false pretences. He will not make Damien his until Damien knows him - knows everything about him.

He closes his wings a bit tighter around them, and does as he was told, his fingers now teasing, now firm; now dancing on his lover’s skin, now unforgiving; and when he feels Damien almost burning with need, he slides a finger into his mouth.

“Oh God,” Damien whimpers, when he’s able to speak again, and Castiel leans forward to kiss him.

“Do not blaspheme,” he says, sealing their lips together, and then, without warning, he reaches between Damien’s legs, pushes his own wet finger inside his body.

Damien groans against his mouth, desperately, incoherently, and in looking down at him through his lashes, Castiel feels a wave of affection crashing down on him, because this man is handsome and noble and brave - and is also completely, undeniably his. Always will be.

The thought is pure sacrilege, and yet it gives him so much pleasure he almost blacks out from the force of it. 

_Mine_ , he thinks, as snow begins to fall on their hair and the top of his wings. _Mine_.

Ten minutes later, though, when Damien is spent - when he leans against Castiel, breathes hard and fast against his neck - later Castiel feels his own certainty ebb away.

Damien was never his. This man belongs to the Host, and the bond between them is but an illusion - something that will be broken when the necessity arises. And Castiel can almost smell the moment coming closer and closer - there is a certain disquiet in Heaven, an anticipation of terrible things to come, and events on Earth are echoing this impending doom. The latest war in Europe - a war Damien has only marginally been a part of, for which Castiel will always be grateful - has been the most violent and terrible conflict on the continent in a very long time.

“Can I ask you to do something else for me?” whispers Damien against Castiel’s skin, and, as it usually happens, Castiel can see the question inside his mind before it can be uttered out loud - he understands how humiliating Damien finds this request, and yet how necessary it is, to him, right here and right now - how urgently this orphan boy, who has raised his brother on his own and has never had a kind word spoken to him, needs to hear these words.

“Can you tell me you love me?”

Damien’s voice is almost shaking with shame, and Castiel tightens his arms around him.

“I can,” he says, in Damien’s damp hair, “because it is the truth. I love you, _mon cœur_. I have loved you for a very, very long time, and I will continue to love you until my last breath.”

Damien lowers his face against Castiel’s neck. Castiel can feel his lashes tickling his skin, and knows Damien’s eyes are still closed - has the sudden, irrepressible urge to take a step back and show him his wings, tell him everything - and then he remembers the weight of his duty, senses the dull ache of his purpose beating a steady rhythm inside him.

Because these are his orders. The boy will be killed and then reborn, and he will never know the truth about it; will never remember his long life, not a single day of it. If he did, how could he have the strength to do what needs to be done?

And this is why Castiel kisses Damien’s hair and then blesses him to fall asleep before he can go through with his insanely bad and rebellious idea. Damien collapses against him, and Castiel takes his weight easily, cradles him in his arms; he waits another minute, a long, painful minute, before turning his face up, towards the unfriendly, empty sky. 

“My help comes from the Lord,” he murmurs, as if to reassure himself. “the Maker of Heaven and Earth.”

He stands still, adjusting his arms more firmly around this man he’s promised to love and protect, rejoicing in the cold touch of hundreds of snowflakes upon his skin; and then he vanishes them both, returns to Damien’s tiny room, tucks him in his bed and walks out, confused and unhappy. 

Two weeks later, Stéphane Charleville dies of typhoid fever, and a few hours after that, Damien hangs himself in his room.


	3. 1637 AD - 1978 AD

It's not until the late eighteenth century that Castiel begins to wonder: how is this immortality in fits and starts changing the man he was instructed to serve?

He watches Devan particularly closely, and he tries to figure it out.

First of all, Devan is a superb warrior. He takes to any weapon like a duck to water. He is unafraid in battle, and perhaps this is a problem: brave to the point of stupidity, someone less generous than Castiel would say. And also: borderline suicidal. Whether this is a normal trait of character for humans – whether little Dan would have been the same if he'd been allowed to grow up – or whether Devan's breakneck courage is a symptom of his weariness of life, Castiel doesn't know. It could very well be impossible to answer this question.

On the other hand, the bond between Devan and his brother Sean is as strong as ever. Castiel hasn't been paying attention to the rest of humanity (much) but he is aware of how family dynamics are supposed to function. People fight; people fall out with each other; people choose their friends over their relatives, time and time again. And yet, while the brothers have fought over the millennia, and stolen each other's girls (and, in one memorable occasion, boys), and disagreed (sometimes violently), and even beaten each other, and savagely - they have never let go. Whenever his ward dies, his first question is always the same: _Where is my brother?_ And the reply never comes from Castiel, but, rather, from the brother in question, who always, and with no supernatural intervention that Castiel can fathom, dies with his brother (sometimes a few days before; sometimes a few months later). As a result of all this, the bond between them is now ironclad. Castiel is almost uneasy in perceiving it; he sometimes feels a sudden chill in his bones, as if a cloud had passed over the sun, because don't the poets say there is such a thing as too much love? Only last century, the point was brought home, bloodily and violently, by young William Shakespeare. Dave and Steven had not been in the Theater for the first ever performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ , but Castiel had felt a pique of curiosity, and had gone down to London for the evening, leaving the brothers to get drunk in a Manchester pub. He'd been surprised by how much he had liked the play, but later, as he gazed at Dave stumbling home in a drunken stupor, he'd wondered, somehow bitterly, if it would have been better for Romeo and Juliet never to meet at all. 

But, after all, all tragedies deal with fated meetings; how else could there be a play? No one will ever make a tragedy - and that is as well, for one could not bear it - whose grief is that the principals never met.

Castiel had wondered then, had wondered - and had stopped himself before he could even see the words forming inside his own mind.

And something else which is perhaps not entirely normal is the growing sense of responsibility weighing on his ward's shoulder. Again, it is perhaps a relic of his first life – firstborn to a powerful king – or perhaps the price to pay for loving his brother so, and being cast as a father at a young age (hygiene and food security being what they are, the two brothers have been orphaned at a young age more often than not; though this may have been a precise choice of fate, now Castiel comes to reflect upon it). In any case, Devan is no different in this from the hundreds of young men who have walked down his same path before; if anything, he is worse. He feels an acute, constant responsibility over Sean (his survival, his well being; the full realization of his dreams and ambitions) but he also feels responsible for everything else (current wars, poverty, famines and plagues). Castiel sometimes wonders if Devan can sense his own immortality, can guess he’s being kept alive for a purpose, and tries to act and feel accordingly.

Which, of course, is a fantasy. Devan knows nothing of it (knows nothing of Castiel).

Because this circle of reasoning always ends as it begins, with Castiel wondering if his own wish to see a pattern in his ward's thoughts and feelings is not, in the end, more to his own advantage than the young man’s; if what he selfishly desires is a kind of acknowledgement of the long journey they have been on together, and about which his warrior boy has no inkling.

Because Castiel is beginning to realize (this child of Enoch has taught him well) that immortality is indeed a burden, even if one is unaware of one's own plight; but spending immortality alone, that is the real tragedy.

For an angel, a sobering, blasphemous thought.

# α|ω

The next time they talk, Castiel is reluctant to approach his ward; and yet his curiosity triumphs over caution.

Because in mid-nineteenth century Munich, Dietmar Glock is a demon hunter; his brother Siegfried, an alchemist.

Of course, magic has always existed in Europe. Castiel has been breathing it in for millennia. He remembers the shady tents of the Babylonian diviners, and the powerful, unopposed strength of the Spartan shape-shifters. Rome, of course, had been the capital of all things supernatural - everyone in the city had gorged themselves on it, what with human sacrifices and werewolves and miraculous bones and ghost-banishing spells. And the triumph of Christianity had, if anything, made things worse, because Hell had been quick to take advantage of the newly established network of monasteries and libraries. Suddenly, the poets and the philosophers and the randomly chosen temple guardians were gone. Religion was now systematic. Priests and cardinals and bishops were all-powerful. Possess just one man, and you had an entire community, if not a country, at your beck and call.

Castiel, though worried by these developments, had not taken too keen an interest in such matters. The one exception had been in the late summer of 897 - he’d been living in Italy, and when he’d heard Pope Stephen VI was engaging in necromancy, he’d decided there was a line, then and there. Even Dato and Salerno Scacciacani had been talking about little else, and they didn’t even live in Rome - they shared a modest farm in the middle of the Florentine hills. The nearest village was twenty miles away, and yet they had still been privy to all the details (though it wasn’t, in fact, true that His Holiness had bitten off the corpse’s fingers: they had been cut with a silver knife). Exasperated by their morbid conversations as much he was outraged as by the demons’ newfound boldness, Castiel had materialized in the Pontiff’s private chambers and had put an end to the ongoing silliness.

But he had not intervened since. He’d told himself, many times, that he wasn’t doing more against demons because it wasn’t his job to do so - and that was true. He had a mission. He was carrying it out. Everything else was irrelevant. 

However, he’d come to realize that the truth was slightly different. 

He hadn’t stepped too close to the supernatural world because he hadn’t wanted the brothers to come into contact with it. 

The bond between him and his charge now clearly cut both ways - there was no way of knowing what would happen if Castiel started to exorcise demons left and right. It was entirely possible the man he was supposed to protect would have ended up paying the consequences of Castiel’s actions, and it would have been unfair (unbearable). They were already marked for slaughter, both of them, and Castiel was starting to have a pretty good notion that both camps - Heaven and Hell - would, in the end, come for them.

Not that he could do anything about that, of course. Not that he _would_.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to protect them as long as he was at liberty to do so.

Which is why, after much soul-searching and a thorough, careful examination of the purity and selflessness of his own motivations, Castiel has thrown caution to the winds and gone down to meet the famous Dietmar Glock in person.

Dietmar is only twenty-seven, but his reputation (like his brother’s) is already legendary. Many people all across Germany’s rapidly emptying countryside swear to having seen him kill anything, from witches to spirits to marshes goblins. Just as many women, or so it seems, claim to have conceived a child of his.

Castiel knows the truth, of course, and he’s not happy about it, because it is alarmingly close to the rumors and the boasts. Dietmar has been putting himself in (unnecessary) danger, over and over again. And Siegfried, as far as Castiel can tell, is being tailed by a demon wherever he goes (he himself is, despite being a superb alchemist, unaware of this fact).

It looks like the boys ( _his_ boys) are much too close to the truth of it all, and Castiel does not like it.

Looking up from the dusty old volume in front of him, he makes a mental sweep of the Augustinerkeller’s low-ceilinged rooms for the upteenth time. Dietmar and Siegfried are drinking with some friends at a large table in the shadow of a huge chestnut tree - it’s still light, but the working day is over and they are being as loud and obnoxious as they can. Dietmar’s voice (he is singing a dirty ballad at the top of his lungs) is distracting Castiel as he scans the garden around him, and then the other patrons.

After a full minute, he drops his eyes on the book again. Everyone here is just who they appear to be: hunters (the normal kind), farmhands, and, mostly, factory workers.

There is no trace of the demon after Siegfried. Castiel doubts she’s sensed him: he’s woven his wards well. It is more probable she’s taking advantage of Siegfried being out to snoop around his laboratory.

Castiel keeps reading, but even when his eyes are on the page, all he can see is Dietmar. In his mind’s eye, he still has Damien Charleville’s features. Again and again, he hears that pained plea in his ears ( _Can you tell me you love me?_ ), wishes he could have done more. Wishes, in fact, that he could do more now, that he could have a real conversation with this smart, life-hardened man who knows about demons; yet is acutely aware he can’t.

The problem being, of course, that Dietmar doesn’t know about angels; that he’s not supposed to.

Then again, his charge always had a mind of his own.

Castiel feels Dietmar walking towards him before the hunter has even taken his first step. By now, their minds are one, and his intention to approach Castiel is as loud as the ridiculous song he’d been singing. 

“A real gem, that” he says, smiling broadly and glancing down at the book in front of Castiel. “Mind if I take a look at it?”

Castiel has brought the book here (has stolen from the Trinity College library, in fact) because he’d hoped Dietmar would want to see it. Still, he frowns up at the man.

Dietmar looks nothing like Damien Charleville, and yet they are, very clearly, the same person. His soul is a dead giveaway, of course, but there are other details - his green eyes, the shape of his cheekbones; how he smiles, tilting his head a bit to the side. This is also the cheeky boy in Greece ( _Would you have a drink with me?_ ), only this time he’s all grown up. Handsome and cocksure and as dangerous as rusty blade.

“It’s in Latin. You don’t look like someone who reads Latin,” says Castiel, though he happens to know very well that Dietmar does, in fact, know the language.

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” says Dietmar, and he sits down.

Castiel shrugs, smiles slightly.

“Perhaps it was,” he replies, pushing the thick volume across the table.

Before touching it, Dietmar bends down, only just, and seems to smell the parchment; and then he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, uses it to turn to the title page.

“John Dee’s legendary _Genealogia Angelorum_ ,” he says, and whistles. “Also poisoned. Thanks for the heads-up, man,” he adds, looking up at Castiel.

Castiel shrugs again.

“I wanted to see if you’re as good as they say you are.”

Dietmar narrows his eyes.

“You a hunter?”

Castiel smiles.

“You’ve taken a stupid risk with that Fuchsbau last night,” he says. “You’re lucky your brother had some dried ember flowers on him.”

It hadn’t been luck, of course. Castiel had placed the flowers there himself.

Dietmar pauses for a second, then he pushes the book aside, carefully avoiding touching it, and leans forward on his elbows.

“And how do you know about that, exactly?”

“Perhaps I dabble in divination.”

There is a sudden explosion of cheers from the workers: two busty waitresses have emerged from the tavern with a new round of beers. Dietmar looks their way, checks them out, seemingly without even being aware of he’s doing it, and Castiel smiles with fondness.

He was never comfortable in the presence of others. Balthazar was the only one of his brothers who truly got him, the only one Castiel confided into, and it’s been so long since he died it’s like he never existed at all; like there was never a time or a place in which Castiel has felt safe in someone else’s company.

But things are different with this man. Things are always different around this man.

Even on a day like today, and during a meeting like this one - even if Dietmar turns around again, licks his lips, thinks of the best way to outmaneuver Castiel - even these calculated thoughts of his are extraordinary, and as warm on Castiel's skin as late summer sun.

“That mean I should consider this book a warning, then?”

Castiel glances sideways at the leather-bound volume.

“Of sorts,” he admits. “It’s not completely accurate, but you might want to have a look at chapters four to seven.”

Dietmar frowns.

“What for? There’s no such thing as angels.”

“I never said there was. But other matters are discussed in those parts - subjects that may arouse your interest. Resuscitation spells, for instance.”

Castiel can almost feel Dietmar’s disbelief in his own mouth as the hunter sits up in his chair.

“ _Blödsinn_. There’s no such thing. Dead is dead.”

“You’re wrong. It can be done, if you’re willing to pay the price.”

“And what price would that be?”

“Your soul - in exchange for another. In order to obtain or create something, something of equal value must be lost or destroyed.”

“The Law of Equivalent Exchange. Yeah, I’m familiar with it.”

“So you know that you cannot gain anything without sacrificing something else in return. Although, if you can endure that pain and walk away from it, you'll find you have a heart strong enough to overcome any obstacle.”

Dietmar looks at him for a moment.

“What life could possibly be worth your own?”

Castiel sees through this at once, and he tilts his head to the side, letting his eyes move behind Dietmar - mentioning his brother, now pushing his long hair back and roaring with laughter, without saying a single word.

Dietmar doesn’t deny the unspoken suggestion. He seems to become warier, but, in line with his cat-like personality, the possibility of danger draws him in even more.

“Yeah, well. My brother is plenty capable to bring himself back to life all on his own,” he boasts.

“Fine. Someone you love, then.”

“I don’t love anyone,” is the immediate reply.

“I heard differently.”

“Then you were deceived. A hunter can have no family. I don’t plan on living long enough to care for one,” he says, and he’s trying, really hard, not to sound bitter; but, again, Castiel sees through him as if through clear glass.

“Well, if that ever changes, I assure you that the spells do work. Pledge your soul - do it in earnest, using the word of God, and your beloved will be saved from any blow.”

“Good to know. Any other wiseass things I should know about?”

“I know so many wiseass things, Dietmar Glock, that your existence would come to an end before I could even start to number them.”

Dietmar stares at him for only a second before starting to laugh, and Castiel cannot help but joining in. This, he thinks, is how humans bear it: they keep each other company. They live as if they would live forever, as if they would die each moment. Always both at once.

“You are not a hunter, are you?” asks Dietmar, out of the blue. “In fact, I am not even sure you are human,” he adds, before Castiel can think of a reply.

They stare at each other. Dietmar's stance changes into one of subtle confrontation. Castiel sees his hand move over the knife on his belt, and then fall again. He’s not worried about his own safety - he is both here and not here, and on this plane of existence there is nothing that can hurt him - but still, this turn of events saddens him. He’d hoped -

“I like you, though,” Dietmar says, sounding almost annoyed. “Why do I _like_ you? Have we met before?”

And here it is again. The answer to this question is the secret that has been growing ever heavier inside Castiel’s chest. This could be the moment to -

Castiel opens his mouth, then closes it.

He can’t. Now now, and not, perhaps, ever.

Still, he owes the man something.

“We have,” he says, carefully. “And we will meet again.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you too.”

It’s a silly answer, but it makes Dietmar laugh again.

Before Castiel can say anything else, Siegfried’s voice echoes across the garden.

“ _Bruder_! What are you doing there alone? Come join us!”

Dietmar’s eyes widen slightly. He turns around, raises his beer high and toasts his brother; and then he stands up, steps to the side, deliberately, so Castiel will be visible from the other table. Siegfried’s eyes, warm and happy, move right over where Castiel is sitting, then through him, to the waitress running around on the other side of the courtyard.

“I’m coming,” says Dietmar, but then he turns again, looks down at Castiel.

Castiel pushes the book towards him.

“I purified it,” he says. “You may now touch it. And you would do well to read it.”

“I’ll see if I find the time,” replies Dietmar, slowly, almost insolently; but still, his hand closes over the leather cover.

There is something sad, Castiel thinks, about the turn this story of theirs has taken. For three thousand years his charge has kept his head down and done what he’s been told - and now - now Europe is immersed in such momentous changes - now magic is being replaced by machines and people are free from arbitrary kings and servitude - now Dietmar is turning his back to this glorious future to do his part in a dark and secret war. Castiel knows Dietmar suspects (but he can’t know for certain) that this fight has been going on since the beginning of time; and that he fears (he may be right) that Good will not, in the end, triumph over Evil. Evil is a many-faced, cheap shot kind of thing, and Dietmar Glock, however loving and noble his spirit is, is only a man. Him stepping into the fray will not be enough to tip the balance in their favour.

“So, am I?” Dietmar asks, his eyes turning playful again.

“Are you what?”

“As good as they say I am.”

“I am still on the fence about that.”

“I’m sure I could help you make up your mind.”

He looks Castiel up and down, slowly and suggestively.

“I’m sure you could,” Castiel admits, blandly.

He hopes he’s managed to conceal the sudden flutter in his heart, but, judging from Dietmar’s winning smile, he’s not as good at hiding his emotions as he once was.

# α|ω

Later that century, in a different country, Donek is, again, a demon hunter, and his life is ended by a demon. The creature tricks him - it pretends to be trapped inside a Devil’s trap so that Donek won’t notice that a bit of the paint has washed off, and then it steps out of it and stabs him as soon as his back is turned.

Castiel wishes, desperately, that he could stop this from happening, but, of course, he can’t. Donek’s soul flutters into existence at his side, and then it turns around again and steps into the light before Castiel can think of anything to say.

Frowning, he takes the time to check his ward has arrived to his destination safely, and then he blinks himself back inside the deconsecrated church in Gdynia and draws his angel blade. He couldn’t save Donek, but he’ll do his damn best to avenge him.

He walks forward, as hidden and inexorable as Death himself, but when he is close to the demon, when he’s standing right behind the man - a handsome, well-dressed man in his late forties - he stops. The demon is looking down at the body at his feet, but he’s not gloating. Castiel, of course, can’t see inside his mind, but there is a cold sense of sadness coming from the creature, and this stays his hand.

“Who _were_ you?” the demon asks, in a cultured, mellow voice.

Castiel circles around him until he’s facing him - Donek’s body between them suggesting a grotesque metaphor of Calvary - and looks at the demon’s face, the blade still unsheathed and ready.

“I needed to kill you,” the demon muses. “I _wanted_ to. I’ve been looking forward to it, and I only wish we’d have more time together. You would have looked dashing on a rack,” he adds, a bit wistfully, his dark eyes hesitating on Donek’s well-defined back.

“And yet -”

Castiel waits.

“Yet there was something unholy about this. _Wrong_. Like I was supposed to -”

The demon falls silent and kneels next to the body. Without the slightest effort, he turns it over and passes a hand on Donek’s cold cheek.

“I know you’re there,” he says, after a little while. “I can smell the stench of you. Show yourself, won’t you?”

Now Castiel is intrigued enough as to be willing to postpone this demon’s death for another five minutes. He flickers into existence and stares down at the thing - a crossroad demon, scum of the scum, a creature which, under normal circumstances, should not have been able to sense an angel’s presence.

The demon’s eyes go black as soon as he sees Castiel, and when Castiel raises his angel blade and breathes out pure light around himself, the demon growls and falls back, away from Donek’s body.

“You wanted to see me,” says Castiel. “So speak. I believe it is common courtesy to start with your name.”

“Why should I tell you my name?” the demon snarls; it’s clear that whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this; not an actual seraph, a creature so mighty it could easily smite him on the spot and bring down the whole town around him.

“Because I asked for it.”

The demon hesitates, then seems to realize he’s outgunned; he raises his hands in conciliation, and his eyes turn human again.

“Crowley,” he says, calmly, and there is such a difference between the growling dark presence and this reasonable man who appeared in its place that Castiel becomes even warier.

_What is this thing? It was destined to kill Donek, but what else is it destined to do?_

“You don’t want to kill me,” he adds. “You’ll need allies when Lucifer rises. I could be useful to you.”

_When Lucifer rises?_ This is news to Castiel - extremely worrying news. He hopes, of course, that the demon is deluded, but there is something about the way he said it - he believes he’s telling the truth, and that is rare enough for a demon - to utter the truth when they can so easily and skillfully lie - that makes Castiel pause.

“Why would you betray your Lord and help me?” he asks.

Crowley licks his lips.

“We rob the world, but he will rifle the deep. If the enemy be rich, Lucifer will be rapacious; if he be poor, Lucifer will lust for dominion; he will make a desert and call it peace.”

“And won’t that arrange you?”

Now it is the demon’s turn to pause.

“Whatever I am now,” he says in the end, “I was born a man. I would take no pleasure in the complete annihilation of the human race.”

Castiel is not inclined to trust demons, but there is something different about this one; or maybe the way he looked at Donek has been enough to _make_ him different. He doesn’t know what role Crowley will play in the coming war, and he is wary of the demon’s fascination with his ward, but he can read the signs as well as anyone. This is unfinished business; Crowley will be spared. 

“Very well. Remember your offer when the time comes,” he says, with a frown; and then he sheathes his weapon and starts to walk away.

“Wait! What is your name?”

Castiel turns around again.

“Do not worry about it. _You_ will not find _me; I_ will be the one to find _you_.”

# α|ω

On July 27th, 1914, Castiel is called to Zachariah’s office.

“Tomorrow an event will take place - something which will shape the next ninety-five years. It will cause much misery and death, but it has been long foretold. You will not interfere,” Zachariah says, and this time, there is something different - this time, he is flanked by two guards, as if he believes, what?, that Castiel will suddenly attack him? That he would even have the strength to hurt him?

“What happens in ninety-five years?” Castiel asks, because, really, this looks like a bizarrely specific length of time.

Zachariah cocks his head to the side, and Castiel realizes he has never questioned him before. Whatever doubts he’d started to have, he’s always kept them to himself.

“Come back on November 3rd, 1983, and I will tell you all about it.”

This should not bother Castiel. Time has no meaning for him, and the wishes of the Host are law. Yet he cannot help to feel annoyed by the fact he’s being kept out of the loop - by the fact he’s going to have to wait another seventy years to find out what’s going on.

He was planning to share Crowley’s words with his superiors, but now he decides not to.

“Does this have to with Dmitri Tokarev?” he asks instead, and his annoyment deepens when he notices the small frown on Zachariah’s face - his commander, the one who gave him this mission in the first place, has to actually think about who the man is.

“Dmitri, of course,” he says, after only a couple of seconds, but the damage is done. “And, I believe, his brother Semyon. Both employed at the Putilov factory, is that right? I hope they are not going to be involved in the revolution. Revolutions are messy. Wouldn’t want them to get hurt.”

Castiel’s annoyment shifts to anger, but he schools his features into perfect indifference. There is definitely something wrong, here - Zachariah _has_ to be aware of the fact that his charge’s brother has been followed around by a demon for the past three centuries, for instance - but it is also plain they do not trust Castiel. Not anymore.

“I will make sure they don’t,” he says, but they both know these are empty words.

Semyon will be killed during the October Revolution, only three years from now, and Dmitri will be one of the last Russian soldiers to die in the Great War. He will give up - overwhelmed by the cold and the hunger and his grief over his brother’s death and the sheer pointlessness of everything around him - in a frozen field in Ukraine, on New Year’s Day, 1918.

Still, Castiel cannot bear Zachariah’s oily smile for another minute. With a curt nod, he returns to Dmitri’s modest lodgings and then remains very still in the darkness, looking down at Dmitri - his blond curls, his regular, Slavic features; the slight movements of his chest - as he sleeps. There is nothing in common, Castiel marvels, between this powerfully built, muscular factory worker and the slight, dark-skinned boy he’s once known in what is now the Ottoman Empire; and yet, yet they share the same dreams - sweet moments of their childhood and the food their mothers used to cook and a black stallion shaking his mane and Castiel himself (a blue-eyed man with twelve foot wings extending over him) - the same green eyes, the same courage and ingenuity and extraordinary capacity to love.


	4. 1979 AD - 2009 AD

On January 24th, 1979, Castiel finds himself wandering inside a hospital room. 

He has never done this before; he’s never witnessed the first moments of this man he’s been tasked to walk with, and he wasn’t planning to now; not at all.

Something about this birth, though, is different. Castiel can’t explain how he knows it. He just does.

He pushes the door open and walks into the darkened room. He ignores the sleeping couple - the woman lying down on the bed, the man sitting in the chair next to her, his dark head bent down against her thigh - and moves to the crib.

As he peers down at the baby, his wings open on either side of him, taking him by surprise. He hadn’t meant to make them visible, and there is no magic which could compel him to do so.

_Except there is_ , he thinks, looking at the newborn child for the first time.

It is, really, a normal baby, with a shock of light brown hair and skin still red and blotchy from the effort of birth. And yet his green eyes stare up at Castiel, unblinkingly; unafraid.

Castiel has never been sure of his own emotions, and he can’t be sure that what is flooding through him now is really love; it’s perhaps more - familiarity. 

_It's you_ , he thinks. _It's going to be you_.

Unable to help himself, he lowers one hand inside the crib. The baby is too small to react promptly - Castiel knows he can barely see - but when Castiel passes a finger on his tiny hand, he opens his own fingers and grabs him.

Castiel smiles.

“Hello, Dean.” 

 

# α|ω

 

Castiel wants, more than anything, to stay behind and watch Dean Winchester grow up. He is, however, distracted by the ever increasing demonic activity and scared by the deep sense of recognition he’s felt when looking down at the child for the first time.

It makes no sense, really. It’s not like they’ve never met each other before. A strong surge of feeling was almost to be expected.

And yet, for the first time, Castiel has seen his own life in the child’s eyes; his own existence, reflected back at him. For the first time, he’s been struck by the sudden certainty that yes, he will save Dean Winchester, as is his duty; but Dean Winchester will also save _him_.

From what, he does not know, and the thought unsettles him.

And so, Castiel takes part in the war for the first time in millennia. He listens to the omens, starts killing again. He takes no joy in it, but he knows he’s needed, and therefore he keeps fighting.

And then, on November 3rd, 1983, he steps again into Zachariah’s office, as he was ordered to.

“I’d like to thank you for your contribution,” his commander says (though, again, he’s flanked by guards), “and inform you your duty is coming to an end. A few more years, and we will be able to put all this behind us.”

“All this what?”

Zachariah smiles a fixed, uncomprehending smile.

“You, one of our best soldiers, bonded to a human and forced to live on Earth. You will soon regain your rightful place, Castiel. Rejoice.”

Castiel nods.

“As always, I will do what is requested of me.”

Zachariah pauses at this, as if he’s trying to understand whether or not Castiel is being sarcastic.

“Last time we spoke, I told you I would have news for you. Well, here it is: Dean and Sam Winchester are the last of their line. The time of reckoning is nearly upon us.”

“I do not understand.”

“Go and see for yourself, then,” Zachariah says, and Castiel obeys.

When he arrives at the Winchesters’, the house is already burning. Castiel looks at it in horror, and then runs over to the little boy standing at the end of the driveway.

“Dean?” he asks, kneeling down next to him. “Dean, child, are you okay?”

The boy doesn’t turn around. He’s standing very straight, swaying a little under the weight of his baby brother, and there are drying tear tracks on his cheeks.

“My mummy is burning,” he says, and Castiel’s heart breaks for him.

If this is the last life Dean Winchester is ever going to live, he thinks, was it too much to ask that it should be a good one?

“She is not,” he says, and then, unable to lie even to a five-year-old child, he adds, “Not anymore. She’s in Heaven, and she loves you very much.”

“She does?”

Dean turns around. His green eyes are shining from the light of the inferno on his left, but his gaze is as direct and unafraid as ever. 

_You truly are the son of a king_ , Castiel wants to say. _You are the lord I was born to follow_.

The sudden, blasphemous thought unsettles him, and, for a second, he forgets the child asked him a question.

“She does. She is thinking about you right now,” he says, when he can speak again, and the next moment John Winchester comes out of the house, bewildered and shocked and completely undone, and, taking no notice of Castiel, he walks up to his children, picks them up and disappears towards his car.

“It will be okay, son,” Castiel hears him say.

Dean looks back at him from over his father’s shoulder. Castiel raises a hand in farewell and, knowing full well it won’t make a difference one way or the other, wishes John’s words would come true.

# α|ω

For the next twenty years, Castiel is kept away from Earth.

The war is well underway by now, and Castiel is needed. He has no reason to doubt his superiors, and no permission to ever do so, yet he feels a sense of rebellion slowly growing inside him.

After thirty centuries spent at his side, he is now forbidden to go near Dean Winchester, and he misses his charge more every passing day. He doesn’t know how Dean is growing up - has John met someone else, remarried, settled down? Or has he contacted the Campbells, and decided to live a life of revenge?

The sweet mechanic whose existence Castiel has brushed against in the early Seventies would never know how to be a hunter; would never deprive his sons of a normal life, and a chance to be happy. And yet, the person John once was has burned inside that house alongside his wife. Castiel has been on Earth long enough to know one traumatic event is enough to shape and change a person's whole life, and he fears John Winchester will be no exception.

And so as he fights, day after day, as he kills and tortures demons for information - there is talk of Lilith coming back - this must not be allowed - this must _never_ be allowed - he finds himself thinking of Dean, of this serious little boy who’s probably being moved from town to town, seeking out a demon Castiel is not allowed to smite.

When he is called to Zachariah’s office once more, his instinct for rebellion has grown so strong he blurts out a question.

“Why can't Dean Winchester be granted at least one full life?” he says, only realizing how insolent he sounded once the words are spoken out loud.

“Why do you wish for him to have one?” says Zachariah, raising his eyes from the topographical model of New York sitting on his desk.

The answer to this is tricky; unseeable and unspeakable. Castiel chooses the next best reason.

“He loves his brother, and he’s watched him die for the span of two hundred human lives. I’m sure he wants to see Sam happy before he dies for the last time.”

“What he _wants_ is not of our concern. Nor should it be of yours,” Zachariah replies, and there is a warning in his voice.

Castiel feels the _It’s unjust_ forming on his tongue, and swallows it back down. Zachariah is his commander, and he is right. Dean’s desires should be his own. He lowers his head.

“I did not want to tell you this, not until the last moment. But it looks like the end is almost upon us, and it is only fair you knew.”

Castiel keeps his head low. He hears Zachariah stand up, then walk; hears him coming closer and closer. The sense of danger now is stronger than ever.

“While you were otherwise occupied, Dean Winchester made a deal with a demon to save his brother.”

The words burn through Castiel; they make him hot and cold.

_No. Dean - what have you_ done?

“It expires tomorrow. The Winchesters and their allies have tried to find a loophole for a year, but, as you well know, there isn’t one. Therefore -”

He brings his fingers on Castiel’s chin, forces him to raise his head.

“It’s time to break your bond, brother.”

Castiel’s expression doesn’t change, but, of course, Zachariah is too old to be fooled.

“I know this will hurt you, and I am sorry for it. But there is no other way. There never was. We gave you a mission, and you performed it admirably, but now that mission has come to an end. You have served us well, Castiel. You have our gratitude.”

He stares a moment longer in Castiel’s eyes, then he turns around, walks back to his desk.

The two henchmen start forward. 

“If I may -” starts Castiel, and there is such panic inside him that he struggles to get the rest of his question out, “I would ask for one more day.”

“One more day?”

“I watched over Dean’s first death, back when he was a boy king, the grandson of Cain. I would watch over his last.”

Zachariah hesitates.

“You owe me this,” Castiel adds, and, for a split second, he wonders if he’s gone too far.

But then, miraculously, Zachariah nods.

“So be it,” he says, and Castiel closes his eyes in relief.

# α|ω

When Dean steals the knife from Ruby, her cry of fury bounces off the walls of the room. Castiel closes his eyes, overwhelmed by his own sadness and weariness, but he still sees the Winchesters preparing to leave; he sees Dean, halfway up the stairs, his short temper only barely managing to mask his panic; he sees Sam looking up at his brother, his own face an open book of worry and grief. He understands their anger and their pain. He feels them in his own heart. Despite all appearances, Ruby has won this round, and the war is not yet over. Many people will die. Dean will be the first of millions. 

When he can move again, Castiel comes into being in the back of the Winchesters’ car - a shiny black thing, as elegant as the black stallion which lived his long life in solitude in an empty garden - and lets his head falls back against the headrest. The human world is now fully embroiled in Heaven’s wars, and Dean Winchester, an incredibly gifted hunter, a son and grandson to hunters, is clenching his hands on the wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. He is twenty-six years old, and he’s about to die. His eyes flicker for a moment to the mirror above him, and Castiel does not move. He doubts Dean will be able to see him. His soul belongs to Hell now. The bond between them is no more than an illusion, a far-flung hope only Castiel’s folly is still sustaining.

So Dean doesn’t see him, and he doesn’t say anything. He tries to turn on the radio instead, but Sam turns it off again.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam looks awkward. Castiel can hear what he wants to say before the words are spoken, and he lowers his head as sadness overwhelms him again. He wishes he could have this same conversation with Dean, but, of course, he can’t. Dean has no idea about what happened between them - about the two hundred lives they have shared - has no idea that angels exist, that there is an angel in his backseat right now, and that Castiel would give it all - his Grace, his immortality - for just one chance to say these same words to Dean. Because it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t understand this feeling: it still need to be spoken. Dean needs to die knowing he’s loved. He deserves as much.

“You know if this doesn't - this doesn't go the way we want, I want you to know -” Sam starts, but Dean brings a hand up and frowns.

“No. No, no, no, no.”

“No what?”

“No, you're not gonna bust out the misty goodbye speech, okay? And if this is my last day on Earth, I do not want it to be socially awkward.”

_Socially awkward_. Castiel is not sure about the meaning of this expression. He understands, however, that Dean is refusing these words of comfort because he’s afraid they will weaken him. 

_Thirty centuries you walked this Earth_ , he thinks, and he almost smiles; a sad, fond smile. _And yet you still don’t accept that love makes you stronger, not weaker. You stubborn fool._

As he listens to the Winchesters brothers singing a completely inappropriate song of worship, he can’t help bringing the thought to its natural conclusion. 

_Yes, you are a fool. And yet I love you so_.

# α|ω

Castiel fully expected Zachariah to put in an appearance, but he has to wait until the very last moment for these expectations to be confirmed. He is standing in a small room, his heart in turmoil. Sam is talking to Ruby, a desperate conversation of pleas and shouts and panic. Castiel hears his voice from very far away ( _What do you need me to do?_ ) because all he can do is look at Dean - Dean who grabs his brother, Dean who grates out, “What the hell do you think you're doing?” - Castiel is reminded of little Dan kissing his brother’s forehead: even dead, even dying, the young’s prince concern had been for his brother’s safety and happiness. He’d never asked anything for himself; never thought, perhaps, that he deserved to. 

_They are so much alike_ , Castiel thinks, watching Dean as he agonizes over his brother’s desperate attempts to keep him alive; forgetting for a split second that they are, in fact, the same person. 

Castiel is so lost in thoughts and memories, at first he doesn’t even notice his commander’s arrival. 

“What are you doing here?” says Zachariah from behind him, in the voice of someone who’s asked the question before.

“It is my duty to be here,” Castiel says, without turning around. “This man,” he goes on, his eyes still fixed on Dean’s determined, scared face, “is my responsibility. I have come to watch over his death. As I told you I would.”

“And I ask you again, why?”

This time, Castiel looks back over his shoulder at Zachariah.

“Because it is my mission,” he says, flatly. “And I will carry it out to the bitter end.”

“You know he does not get to be saved.”

Castiel doesn’t answer.

“Brother -”

“I did not watch over him for three thousand year so just he could be turned into a _demon_!”

The sentence was spoken in anger, but it is still unforgivable. Castiel, however, is fast approaching the moment he won’t care at all about right and wrong, obedience and treason.

“He will not,” says Zachariah carefully, “be turned into a demon.”

“I do not understand,” Castiel replies, and he finally turns to look at him.

“You are to leave the events unfold as planned. Everything will be resolved. This is not the end, brother.” 

Castiel goes completely still. His eyes flicker from Zachariah to Dean, who’s looking at the door and seems determined to fight to the death, whatever is going to come through it.

“Do you trust me?”

The question is shocking. Angels are created to obey orders. Trust doesn’t come into it. Castiel has been a soldier of the Heavenly Host for millions of years, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard the word uttered before.

“I am your brother, and your commander,” Zachariah insists. “Trust me. Leave. There is nothing you can do for him now, and I would spare you this unnecessary pain.”

It is a tempting offer. If this is truly not the end - if there is another part to the plan - Castiel has felt Dean’s death many times before, but this moment, right here, is tearing him apart.

Just as he’s about to nod in assent, though, Dean looks his way. He has the same fair skin his father had, but his eyes are bright green and there is something in them - an intelligence, a compassion - which had been completely snuffed out in John Winchester’s stern gaze. Like John, Dean has been a hunter for twenty years - his whole life - and yet his soul is still bright and untarnished and completely his own, despite all the pain and the hardship he’s gone through. Even the demonic deal was done out of love, not personal gain, and therefore it has left no trace upon Dean’s soul (a beautiful, moving thing; a miracle). Castiel has never seen the likes of him. He _loves_ Dean, he suddenly realize. He truly _loves_ him. Maybe he will never be able to feel love as deeply as a human would, but he can _choose_ to love all the same. And he chooses Dean. He will always choose Dean.

“I will not leave him,” he says, and Zachariah sighs.

“You are, indeed, a romantic,” he says, and then frowns at Castiel. “And I will warn you again: keep it in check, or suffer the consequences.”

Castiel doesn’t even notice him disappearing. He stands still and watches as Dean is torn to pieces by Hellhounds, just like Sam is forced to do, because, like Sam, he is bound; though Castiel’s bond is of a different nature.

As Dean becomes too weak to fight, Castiel delves inside his mind and pushes his best memories to the surface - baby Sammy smiling, Sammy playing with his toy planes, a teenage Sam bent over a book, a pencil between his teeth. John whispering, _I’m proud of you_. The expression in Bobby’s eyes as he cried and raged at Dean. Sam hugging him tightly. And Mary - Mary stroking his hair, Mary telling him angels are watching over him, because Castiel is selfish and hungry and can’t bear for the words not to be spoken at all.

He remains inside Dean’s mind as long as he can, feeling every bite and every gash on his own flesh; and then, when Dean lets go, he lets go as well.

_This is not the end_ , he whispers to himself as he watches Sam stumble and fall over his brother’s dead body. _This is not the end. I will find you again, Dean. Whatever the cost._

# α|ω

After Dean’s death, Castiel returns to Heaven. It is not even a conscious choice. He is broken and empty and terrified, and all he wants is to go home.

He wishes, more than anything, that he could talk to Balthazar. But Balthazar is dead, and Dean is dead, and Castiel doesn’t have any other friends. So he does the next best thing. He goes to see Uriel.

Uriel’s office is much nicer and way more welcoming than Zachariah’s. There is even a couch, and Castiel collapses on it without being invited to do so. He closes his eyes before catching Uriel’s surprise and disapproval.

“What next?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“We wait,” says Uriel. “There is but one who can drag Dean Winchester out of Hell, and his time has not yet come.”

Castiel feels his mouth go dry.

“You speak of the Dragon Slayer,” he breathes, opening his eyes again and staring up at Uriel in barely disguised awe and hope. “Michael will return among us?”

Uriel smiles.

“Rejoice, Castiel. War is upon us, but victory comes with it.”

Castiel basks in the thought for a moment. Lilith has proved herself a mighty enemy, and the forces of Hell have been very dangerous of late. As much as it pains him to admit it, Heaven is not as strong as it once was. Without God - Castiel closes his hands into fists, pushes the blasphemous thought aside, because God is _not_ gone, God _cannot_ be gone - but without Lucifer, without Michael - even Gabriel had been a source of balance and calm among his brothers: if not because of his wisdom (a hit and miss occurrence at the best of times), then because of his sheer, unadulterated power. His very presence - the presence of an archangel, a favourite of God - had been enough to - but now all the archangels are gone. They have been gone so long, the dull ache which is their absence has nested inside Castiel’s heart so comfortably he cannot remember a time when his heart has not been hurting.

But if Michael were to come back - if Michael -

And then Castiel remembers himself, and a chill runs down his spine.

“Why would Michael rescue Dean from Hell?” he asks, slowly, but, of course, it is a useless, idiotic question.

The answer is right there. The answer has always been right there, in front of his stupid and blind eyes. Castiel has always been too obedient to even _ask_ the question, but now everything is clear. 

Dean and Sam Winchester. Two brothers bound together more strongly than two men have ever been bound in entirety of human history. Dean’s soul is untarnished; Sam’s soul is corrupted. And Castiel now knows why this is, and that it’s not Sam’s fault.

He’s been such a fool.

“Dean is the Righteous Man,” he says, and it’s not even a question. He just needs to hear the words spoken out loud.

Uriel doesn’t reply. He just watches Castiel, very carefully, as though he expects Castiel to cry, or to fight. But Castiel still can’t believe -

“Why?” he asks, after a short while.

“Because we will win,” says Uriel simply.

Uriel is not wrong. With Michael as their commander, even if Lucifer should find his vessel - and Castiel has his doubts about this, because he’s come to know Sam in the course of the centuries, and whatever he may be fated to do, Sam is good and honest and brave and loves his brother to the death - Michael has defeated Lucifer once before. And after that, it would be Paradise on Earth. No more pain, no more sadness.

The thought is strangely unsatisfying, and Castiel remembers what the demon Crowley said. 

_He will make a desert, and call it peace._

Not that it matters, either way, because this path starts with a single step: have Dean torture another soul in Hell.

Castiel knows Dean inside and out. He knows precisely what, exactly, will need to be inflicted upon him to convince him to pick up the knife.

“Brother,” says Uriel, warningly, but Castiel has already vanished.

# α|ω

For the next four decades, Castiel fights a war on two fronts as he tries to storm Hell while hiding from Zachariah and the unit he's sent to hunt him.

The task proves to be beyond him. More than once, in desperation, Castiel returns to the Kushan Pass - the place where Dean first kissed him. He raises his eyes to the Tirich Mir and he tries to find hope again; he remembers that moment - the look of awe and trust and naked affection in the young soldier’s eyes as he’d taken a step forward and pressed his lips to Castiel’s.

And then Castiel breathes in the cold mountain air even though he doesn’t need to breathe, and he waits for his wounds to heal and he remains exactly where he is, between Heaven and Earth, as he turns his own thoughts inside his mind; tries to plan better, to devise a better strategy. He needs to fight better, he thinks. He needs to be better, because Dean needs him.

But after forty years of vain attempts (the blink of an eye; a whole eternity), Castiel must concede defeat. He is not strong enough. He cannot save Dean.

Or, at least, he cannot save Dean on his own.

Working with a demon is unclean. A mortal sin. It is an unprecedented, extreme act. It will maim his Grace - it will get him exiled and killed. There is no coming back from this.

Castiel conjures Crowley.

“Who even summons anymore?” Crowley asks, as soon as he sees Castiel - sees the defeated look on his face and understands himself to have the upper hand. “You could have called.”

“I don’t have your number,” says Castiel, dully.

Crowley smiles. He looks much better than he did the last time Castiel saw him. More elegant, more refined. More powerful. Crowley is smart and ambitious. Castiel should be wary of him, but he feels nothing.

“So, how can I help?”

He sounds smug, almost overconfident. Castiel decides to take it as a good sign instead as the insult it so clearly is.

“You know how. I need a way into Hell.”

“It’s too late. The seal has been broken.”

Castiel knows this already. He doesn’t care. Dean’s torture won’t end just because the seal has broken. Michael will wait for whatever he’s being waiting for since the very beginning, and Dean will suffer in front of the rack a thousand times more he’s ever suffered while he was on it.

And also -

“Michael will come down on Hell like a nuclear bomb,” he says, ignoring Crowley’s words. “He will destroy everything on his path, and when he gets to Dean -”

He stops, unable to continue.

“Dean will say yes to anything to get out of there,” says Crowley, for him; and then he sees the look on Castiel’s face, and he adds, a bit hurriedly, “I know Alastair. Not a fan.”

“I need to get to him first. I want him to have a choice, at least,” whispers Castiel.

“What difference does it make? The seal has been broken. War is now inevitable.”

“Perhaps. There was never much hope to begin with. But what little I have, is not yet lost.”

“Hope is a human emotion,” scoffs Crowley.

Castiel doesn’t reply. He feels Crowley’s gaze upon his face like scorching heat; impure, yet not unfriendly.

“Then again, so is love,” Crowley adds after a while, shrewdly, and he almost smiles, a carnivorous, ambiguous smile.

Castiel averts his face.

# α|ω

It's been four months for Sam, forty years for Dean; but it felt like four hundred centuries to Castiel, and when he finally finds himself in Hell, he breathes out in relief despite the monsters and abominations now surrounding him.

_I am coming, Dean_ , he thinks; and then he unsheathes his blade and fights.

Hell, like Heaven, is what you make of it; and its queen does not have the power, perhaps, to spy on an angel’s true nature, but she can guess well enough what will hurt Castiel the most; what will hinder his path, and slow his step. No need to drill into his brain for that.

And this is why every demon that comes at Castiel is wearing Dean’s face. Every insult that rains down on him is in Dean’s voice. Every wound he inflicts upon his enemies blooms with Dean’s blood.

But the queen of Hell has underestimated the bond between Castiel and his human charge, because, despite bearing Dean’s appearance, none of these impostors can fool Castiel; and the pain he feels in dispatching them is a fleeting, superficial thing. What matters is getting to the real Dean. 

And when they finally come face to face, Dean doesn’t recognize him. Castiel sees it at once in Dean’s eyes, and it strikes him like a physical blow. This is Dean’s last life. This is their last chance to be - something. To know one another.

And Castiel had hoped -

“Who are you?” Dean asks, but he still lowers the knife he’s holding - an ugly, mean thing whose teeth are sticky with blood.

“I am yours, and you are mine,” says Castiel, and he wills Dean to hear the words; really _hear_ them; to remember their shared past. 

Without even thinking about it, he unfolds his wings.

“Are you - I -”

Dean falls to his knees; this is pain, though, pain and weariness and despair. It is not obedience, and it is not recognition. Castiel moves forward, gets down in front of him, puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I know you have been waiting for me for a long time,” he says, quietly. “I am sorry. I have been blind, and I am weak and I am not even sure I am myself anymore, because I committed a mortal sin to find you, but I am here. I am yours whether you’ll have me or not.” 

“You were there when mum died,” says Dean, searching Castiel’s blue eyes, and it’s not much, it’s not, in fact, anything, considering the two hundred lives they spent together, but Castiel will take it.

“I was,” he nods.

“Is this another trick?”

“You already know in your heart it’s not,” Castiel replies, and he closes his wings more firmly around them both, obscuring the horrors lurking in the darkness.

Dean looks up at him once more, and then he reaches out, touches Castiel’s wings; and Castiel leans forward, kisses him on the lips, breathes his soul in.

# α|ω

Reuniting with Dean is like becoming whole again, because their souls are one; they have been for a long time now. They sing when joined, and this music is like nothing Castiel has ever heard before. He flies back to Dean's tomb and kisses Dean’s body on the mouth, breathing Dean’s soul back inside it – he feels pure joy, sheer relief swell inside him when Dean’s eyes start to open -

\- and then Castiel is wrenched away, falling through the earth and the skies until he lands, hard, in a white space. 

He scrambles to his feet, his blade at the ready, and finds himself looking up at Zachariah and Uriel.

“Where is Dean?” he growls, but, before either of them can answer, he knows - senses Dean waking up, senses his moment of terror when he realizes he’s been buried alive - Castiel feels an unbearable wave of hate against his commanders for calling him back - for leaving Dean to -

“You may want to reconsider,” Uriel says coldly, when Castiel takes a step forward.

“You had no right -” starts Castiel, but Zachariah rolls his eyes.

“Seize him,” he says, and eight angels appear around Castiel, their own blades drawn.

“Step back. I don’t want to hurt you,” says Castiel, adjusting his stance, “I don’t want to hurt any of you.”

But he can’t fight well if he’s not fighting to kill. And Zachariah has chosen the right contubernium to bring him down - a unit which was part of Castiel’s centuria, which fought at Castiel’s side - they are innocent, Castiel can see it in their eyes. They do not know what is really going on. And therefore, the fight is no fight at all.

The torture, on the other hand, is real torture. And it goes on and on. It is endless.

“Why is this not working?” says Zachariah, a tad impatiently, and the executioner stops, and Castiel takes a breath from pain as if escaping cold water. 

“You did not tell me it would be like this,” he says, and he sounds almost offended. “With such matters, death is the only answer.”

Castiel hears his voice from very far away. He’s aware he’s been screaming, and now he sees, as if through fog, Dean in front of him, Dean on his knees, a thousands shards of mirror all around him. Because, well, what his superiors still don’t realize is that their bond cuts two ways, and Dean has been hearing Castiel’s yells of agony and warning. 

He blacks out again, and then he is tortured again, and when he wakes up for the third time he finds Zachariah looking down at him with the air of someone delivering good news.

“We’ve found you a vessel,” he says, smiling, and Castiel tries, and fails, to understand these words.

“A vessel?” he repeats, weakly.

“Yes. No more wandering around butt-naked. We are servants of God. It’s important we keep up our standards.”

Castiel tries to swallow, tastes blood in his mouth, spits it out. He lets his eyes travel around this once immaculate white room, now smeared with red. Standards indeed.

“Are you sending me back, then?”

“Yes. And this time, you’ll abide by my orders.”

“Or what?” asks Castiel, and sees the outrage on Uriel’s face.

But Zachariah only smiles.

“The Apocalypse has long been foretold, brother. And you know which role Dean Winchester will play in it.”

Castiel keeps silent.

“However - angelic possession is a tricky business, as you well know. This is why you haven’t taken a vessel until now, isn’t it? Because sometimes our host gets killed. Sometimes our presence is so vast the human soul is forced out, ends up into the Empty. Beyond saving,” he adds, unnecessarily. “Whoops.”

Still, Castiel says nothing.

“There are protections, though, one could put in place before possession, to ensure the survival of the host. They are tiring, costly procedures, but it can be done. Not by you, though.”

Castiel knows all this. He waits.

“What if I told you that we could give Dean Winchester such protection? His body would be Michael’s, but his soul would be his own; and, after the war, it would find peace.”

_And when did Heaven become a place of torture and petty negotiations and underhand scheming?_ wonders Castiel. _I have walked the Earth too long; I have turned my head away from such corruption, and now it’s spreading and festering. It may very well be too late to stop it._

“That is, _if_ you do your duty and watch over him and deliver him to us. If you don’t, Michael will take him anyway, and Dean’s precious little soul will just…”

The sentence trails away.

“Why would you send me? Why not someone who’s willing?”

“The word comes forth from His mouth; it will not return empty,” says Uriel, and Zachariah scowls, but doesn’t disagree. 

It is almost funny, that despite all this they are still traditionalists, both of them. They are convinced they are following prophecy, and will not be swayed. 

Castiel looks at them a moment longer, and then moves his eyes upwards, even if there is no sky to be seen; not here. He drags his mind away from Dean’s (he’s with Sam now; he will be okay) and considers his brothers’ words. 

Castiel may have been walking among men for the last three thousand years, but he’s still an angel. A servant and a soldier of God. He knows the Apocalypse was long foretold; he knows it will bring peace. But, first, Lucifer must be defeated and Michael is the only one who can do it. Castiel has faith, and there is part of him which welcomes the events to come - his brother coming back, and Paradise on Earth instead of the chaos he’s witnessed all these years - pain and illness and wars and brothers turning on each other. 

Dean is a soldier, he thinks. He will understand. He will want to fight. It is, after all, a fight for the greater good. It is unfortunate that Sam should be Lucifer’s vessel, but, then again, Michael and Lucifer are brothers as well. There will be agonizing pain on all sides; this it is inescapable. And, after that, there will be peace.

Castiel thinks of Dean’s paradise. The garden, the horse. The pomegranate trees. 

“I want you to save Sam Winchester as well,” he says, lowering his gaze. “Dean is the Righteous Man: you owe him that much.”

“Consider it done,” says Zachariah, and he smiles his tradesman’s smile.

# α|ω

It was unwise, perhaps, to strike a deal both with Hell and with Heaven on the same day. Castiel can feel the hooks of both deep within his soul. He is in pain and bad-tempered. When he hears the seeress’ voice calling out for him, he’s in the process of taking possession of his first vessel, and he doesn’t have the strength to push her out.

Even from hundreds of miles away, Castiel can smell her flesh burning.

Dean’s fear, his anger, leave a bad taste in his mouth, but Castiel finds his senses are dulled to it. Enclosed in a human body, he’s paradoxically less in tune with human feelings (with Dean’s feelings). He wonders if this was Zachariah’s plan all along - if he meant to harden Castiel’s heart along with his resolve - because, of course, there was no need to disrupt this poor man’s life - to tear his family apart. Dean can see him without a vessel; has been able to for a long time now.

Of course, there is a possibility his superiors do not know this, and, in that case, it would not be wise to set them straight.

A mortal man being able to perceive an angel’s true form - it is truly something unheard of. Castiel still remembers Moses hiding his face from the burning miracle that was Metatron’s voice; he remembers Anchises looking back, enthralled, at Aphrodite’s beauty (remembers how his eyes had burned in their sockets). Humans cannot bear the sight of the divine. Even prophets, who can (mostly, sometimes) hear an angel’s voice, cannot gaze upon an angel unscathed. The fact that Dean can do this - that he can see Castiel even when Castiel does not wish to be seen, that he can walk up to him and put his hands on Castiel and -

Well. It is an unprecedented, extraordinary fact, and if Zachariah should know of this, he could very well decide the risk is too high and kill them both on the spot.

A vessel is, paradoxically, the safest choice.

Still, the whole thing is irritating. Time is different as seen from inside a human mind. Colours and noise are too bright, unfamiliar. Castiel remembers hearing a British sailor complain of the earth standing still: after many months at sea, he found he could not walk without the cradling rhythm of the waves under his feet. This is the same, he thinks. Living on a stormy sea may be more complicated than walking across a golden field, but when one is used to its roughness, the lack of movement is unsettling.

When he finally walks into that barn where Dean has summoned him, Castiel is troubled and still unaccustomed to his vessel. His own feelings for Dean are blurred; it’s like he’s looking at them from the wrong end of a telescope.

Dean does not recognize him. Then again, Castiel cannot blame him: he hardly recognizes himself.

# α|ω

The second time they meet, Castiel weaves himself inside Dean’s dreams. He gently moves them around, pushes them closer to reality - after what he did to the seeress, and their first meeting in the barn, Dean is wary of him. Until that changes, Castiel needs Dean to be unaware of how deep their connection goes; of how easy it is for Castiel to walk inside Dean’s dreams. On the other end, approaching him when he’s awake is too risky, because then it’s probable Sam will be awake as well, and Castiel doesn’t know what to make of him (Lucifer’s vessel; the boy with the demon blood).

And so Castiel waits until Dean’s dream is a dream of familiarity, and then he walks right in, hoping the weight of his presence will be enough.

It is.

Dean turns around at once, sees him waiting, and walks up to him.

Castiel’s heart aches at how easy it is. Dean is still in his socks, and his hair is dishevelled from sleep. This is something he could see every morning, he thinks, and then steps back from the thought, appalled by the domesticity, the humanity of it. Whatever the relationship between them, Castiel has never known to hope they could share this - an average human life - days and months and years of seeing each other yawning as they sit down to have breakfast together. He doesn’t know what to make of the thought. It is, very clearly, a contamination of his vessel’s wishes, the dreams of this man who prays to be reunited with his wife.

As he talks to Dean, Castiel looks at him closely. There is _something_ , he decides, under the aggression and the fear. Some kind of hope, perhaps.

He shouldn’t delude himself, though - Dean’s hope is not about him, personally; it is the very human reaction of an orphan who’s just found help. Dean is a hunter. He’s been killing monsters his whole life (and a lot longer than that, though he doesn’t realize it). The idea that someone might finally be on his side must be overwhelming, and this is what Castiel can sense in him now. It is indistinct, and it is wary, but it is still hope.

But, of course, Dean never thought he was good enough to deserve such help. It will take a lot more than this to earn his trust.

“If there's a God, what the hell is he waiting for?” he asks, and Castiel replies in the only way he knows how. 

“The Lord works -”

“If you say ‘in mysterious ways’, so help me, I will kick your ass.” 

Castiel raises his hands and looks away - he looks to sixteenth century France, has a glimpse of Damien Charleville leaning against a tavern door, chatting up a waitress. _This man is so gloriously insane_ , he thinks; _perhaps he will be insane enough to welcome his destiny_. The thought is not comforting at all.

Dean needs hope and faith; but he should not be at ease around angels. Castiel wants him mistrustful, because, despite what he's promised Zachariah, his only task here is to allow Dean enough free will to make his choice. Free will, after all, was his Father’s final and most precious gift to humanity. Castiel will not have it marred, not even to win the most important battle of all times. And this is why, even though it pains him to do so, the second time Dean get cocky he moves a little closer to him and allows him to taste the power radiating from him. It crackles between them, a raw, violent thing Dean has never seen the likes of.

“There's a bigger picture here,” he said, warningly. “You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in.”

He knows what these words will mean to Dean, and this is why he remains inside Dean’s head a moment longer and shapes his dreams again, so they will be an empty, nondescript mass instead of the usual memories of gore and blood.

# α|ω

_All roads lead to the same destination_ , he’d told Dean; it was both a warning and a plea, but Dean has heard it as a threat.

Then again, maybe it _was_ a threat, because if this is really true - Castiel turns his head left, watches Dean as Dean drives on to find his brother, unaware of Castiel’s presence in the passenger seat of his precious car - well, everyone knows what a soldier’s destiny is.

And the truth is, Castiel is starting to understand he himself will not survive this war. Even if Zachariah keeps his word (and this little word, this _if_ is pure blasphemy; sacrilege) whatever Michael will leave behind of Dean’s soul will not be what it is now. And Castiel will never be allowed to be near it again. He’s gone too far. Once his deal with Crowley is known - once his part in this story is done -

But, yes. All roads lead to the same destination. Castiel was created to watch over the death of kings. Once the Apocalypse is won, there will be no more kings.

So it should not matter, one way or the other. 

And yet it does. It does.

# α|ω

“If I didn’t know you,” says Dean, right into his brother’s face, “I would want to hunt you.”

Castiel exhales a deep breath and vanishes from the room. He was told to watch, but he can’t take any more of this - the brothers snapping at each others, reenacting a fight which first took place before the beginning of time itself.

_We can use the Darkness to our advantage, brother._

_Our Father gave us laws. It’s not our task to question them, but to follow them._

Still, it gives Castiel a selfish pleasure to establish that Dean is on his side in all this; that Dean and himself are more alike than he thought. After so many years - so many centuries - at his brother’s side, he’d expected Dean to try and understand Sam’s motives. But Dean, like Castiel, doesn’t see grey. They’re black and white creatures, both of them, and even forty years of torture have not hardened Dean - they have not changed his soul, nor have they swayed his resolve. If Dean believes to be in the right, he will go down that road, even if it should kill him.

_I am yours,_ adonai _. Do with me as you think best._

Castiel wrenches himself free of the memory. It is now too painful to look back at it.

# α|ω

When Dean describes Castiel as a bad apple, Castiel smiles a bitter smile. He wanted Dean to be wary of angels; he succeeded in that goal. Furthermore, that Dean is disparaging him is nothing compared to the fact he’s comforting his brother and strengthening Sam’s faith in Heaven (a faith that is no more than tentative in himself). Because, well, as much as someone like Uriel would want to forget this, Sam too has a choice to make, and his choice will be as important as Dean’s. And now that he’s met this young man who smiles at him with little Sarid’s smile, Castiel is starting to doubt he will go quietly. Like Dean, he has a purpose to fulfill, and perhaps Castiel has been guilty of arrogance and overconfidence in believing he knew what this purpose was. 

“Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?” he asks Dean, as soon as he senses that Uriel has stopped to listen to their conversation. They are both sitting in a park, and children are playing, and time seems to have stopped. For a moment, there is only a sort of quiet joy around them. “I’m not a - a hammer, as you say. I have questions. I have _doubts_. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here.”

It feels liberating to admit this; to start healing his relationship with Dean, to bring it closer to what it once was (definitely not conflictual; and perhaps a bit more than that - Castiel can still see the way Dietmar Glock had looked at him - he’d been hardwired to mistrust and hunt things like him, but he’d still found himself liking Castiel instead; _wanting_ him, even).

But then, in the space of a heartbeat, Uriel is listening again, and Castiel vanishes, leaving Dean behind.

# α|ω

The next time Castiel chooses to walk with Dean, Dean is not even aware Castiel is there. They are on a small dock, he and Sam, and they’re arguing - and Dean is - Castiel can see the things he really wants to say, and he barely hears what he says instead ( _Do you really think that a little heart-to-heart, some sharing and caring, is gonna change anything? Somehow -_ heal _me? I'm not talking about a bad day here. The things that I saw - there aren't words. There is no forgetting. There's no making it better._ ), because they turn this beautiful summer day inside out.

_That’s on me_ , Castiel thinks, and everything he is stops for a full minute as he understands the truth at last. 

He’s not going to keep his part of the deal. One day Dean is going to force him to choose between Heaven and himself, and that day Castiel will choose Dean, consequences be damned. It will not even be a choice: it’s simply the way things are.

# α|ω

“What do you want from me?” Dean asks, and Castiel can see he’s not even angry. He is tired, and Castiel can’t blame him. 

Dean has lived through war and plague, but this last life of his is torture. His dreams are so powerful and dark, not even Castiel can change them now.

“Start with gratitude,” says Uriel, and Castiel’s frown deepens.

“Dean, we know this is difficult to understand,” he starts, and Uriel turns to look at him - a warning and a threat.

“And we don't care,” he says, turning back to Dean.

Castiel knows that Uriel has not forgiven him his insolence; knows what really bothers him is the bond he sees forming between a seraph and a man - a creature he considers too far beneath them to be deserving of any attention. He can see it now, in the way Uriel is behaving, in how careful he’s being in this other reality he doesn’t belong to: his commander will never understand. He doesn’t trust Castiel to get the job done, but he resents having to do it himself. A dangerous combination.

“You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we've got,” he says, and Castiel breaks at the expression on Dean’s face.

_On me_ , he thinks, and he tries to soften the blow.

“Dean, you are our best hope.”

Dean turns to look at him, then; and, for a split second, Castiel sees something shift inside his eyes - there is trust there, there and gone like a fallen leaf in the wind - but still - there _was_ something - something -

“No. No way. You can't ask me to do this, Cas. Not this,” he answers, and Castiel blinks in surprise and fascination.

Dean likes to be in control. Castiel knows this, and he also knows - anyone would understand this - how difficult it is in a life like Dean’s to have control over anything at all. What is remarkable is that this man, this man who honestly considers himself stupid, uncouth, even, would use language in such a way to exert control over his surroundings.

Refusing to call an angel by his name - another act of insane bravery, and one of the elaborate techniques Dean uses to make sense of a world which doesn’t make sense at all.

So, yes, Dean has called him ‘Cas’ before - he’s done it unthinkingly, in mockery or anger - but now, suddenly, now these three little letters are everything. Because he's not angry now, and he's not mocking him now. Because Dean has never known Castiel’s name before this life, right now. He’s called him a god, or an angel. In the beginning, he would call him _adonai_ , a name Castiel had liked because it spoke of ownership and obedience; with the passing centuries, however, he had realized the concept to be painfully limited to describe what was going on between them. And now - now he has been given Castiel’s proper name, now is the moment Dean has chosen to remake it, recreate it inside his mouth and mind; to make it _his_.

_Cas_ , he thinks, and he is so distracted by the pleasure the sound of it gives to him he is too late in stopping Uriel.

“Who said anything about asking?” Uriel is saying, stepping between them, and, the next second, they are in the abandoned warehouse, the stench of demon heavy over Cas’ face. 

Dean takes a single long look through the glass - sees what waits for him beyond it - and turns around.

“Where's the door?”

“Angels are dying, boy,” Uriel answers, blocking his path, and Dean looks up at him, slow and insolent.

“Everybody's dying these days. And hey, I get it. You're all-powerful. You can make me do whatever you want. But you can't make me do _this_.”

_I was too late_ , thinks Cas again. _This is on me_.

“This is too much to ask, I know,” he says, out loud. “But we have to ask it.”

Cas is unprepared for the weight of Dean’s gaze on him. He can bear it only for a moment before turning his face away.

“I want to talk to Cas alone,” says Dean, and Castiel can feel Uriel’s quiet anger even before his commander shifts his eyes to him, pins him down.

“Really?” he answers, but he’s looking at Cas, and Cas forces himself to look back.

“If you want a snowball’s chance of me going in there, then you’re gonna shake ass and let us talk,” says Dean, taking another step forward, because brave and suicidal are seemingly two sides of the same coin.

Uriel pauses for a moment, looks down at Dean.

“I think I'll go seek revelation,” he finally concedes, slowly. “We might have some further orders.”

But Dean, of course, can’t leave it at that. Recreating the world, bringing it under his control, is a full-time job.

“Well, get some donuts while you're out,” he says, and this time Cas hears it - under the thick layer of sarcasm and bravado, this is the voice of a man who expects to be obeyed. This misplaced banter is, perhaps, the last relic of the king Dean once was, and Uriel responds to this tone, keeps walking away. They are, in the end, all of them, servants. 

“Jelly,” Dean adds, and Cas is more afraid of Uriel’s laughter than he was about his cold anger.

“Ah, this one just won't quit, will he?” he says, turning back and looking straight at Cas. There is something not quite open in his expression, and Cas has no time to dwell on it, because Uriel speaks to Dean next. “I think I'm starting to like you, boy.”

“You guys don't walk enough. You're gonna get flabby,” Dean says, once Uriel has disappeared, but Cas is a million miles away. 

This whole thing doesn’t make sense. Why would Uriel leave them alone? Why involve Dean at all? His superiors made no secret of their mistrust of him; their revulsion, even. Something is seriously wrong.

“You know, I'm starting to think junkless has a better sense of humor than you do,” Dean adds, and Cas finally focuses on his voice.

He looks back at him, finds Dietmar Glock staring at him, a small smile on his lips. _I’m sure I could help you make up your mind_ , the hunter had said, and he’d made good on his promise that very same night. Cas can still feel the taste of Dietmar’s skin on his lips.

“Uriel's the funniest angel in the garrison,” he says, in that dry tone he’s learned works best on Dean. “Ask anyone.”

And Dean does smile, a bit lopsidedly, as if unsure of what just happened but willing to make the best of it, to give Cas a chance. His moment of amusement, though, withers before Cas can think how to respond, and Dean’s voice turns heavy with worry.

“What's going on, Cas? Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?”

No one is listening. They are alone. Cas looks up at Dean, then down.

“My superiors have begun to question my sympathies,” he says quietly.

“Your sympathies?” asks Dean, and Cas can tell Dean knows exactly what he means, but wants to hear the words out loud; needs to.

“I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. To you. Even to your brother.”

They do not know each other well; not in this life; not yet. Still, Cas sees the moment Dean understands his meaning, the distinction Cas chooses to make between Dean himself and Sam. This is, perhaps, as close as he can get to bare himself to Dean; to explain everything.

“They feel I've begun to express emotions,” he adds. “The doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment.”

Dean looks at him for another moment, seems to steel himself to ask something, then changes his mind at the last moment.

“So they knock you down the ladder and they put Uriel in charge?”

Cas can see Dean has no real interest in the line of enquiry, and therefore, he responds in kind, dry and to the point.

“He is a proud and able instrument of God.”

“The demotion, doesn't it get your loincloth in a twist?”

“It is what it is to be,” Cas answers, and looks away, hoping the illusion of privacy will force Dean to discuss what he really wants to discuss.

He can see the questions and pleas and objections in Dean’s head without even trying, but this is a conversation Dean needs to start himself; he needs to decide, right here and now, if he trusts Cas enough to.

And, apparently, he does.

“Well, tell Uriel, or whoever - you do _not_ want me doing this, trust me.”

Cas turns his eyes on him again.

“Want it, no,” he says, seriously. “But I have been told we need it.”

Dean takes a step towards him, and for one foolish moment Cas thinks he’s going to ask for comfort - he remembers Damien looking up at him, Damien raising his ruined arms (the tattered uniform, and all that blood) to him - not knowing, not caring who Cas was, just needing to be held - needing to step away from the carnage around them -

But, of course, Dean is different. John may have punished him and hurt him and forced him to be something he is not, but he also gave him something Damien never had: a home to come back to; someone else in charge; someone Dean could trust. And so Dean walks right past Cas, walks away from him until Cas can’t see his face - doesn’t know, or pretends to ignore, that Cas can see everything about him even when his back is turned; can perceive his fear and his guilt and his horror and self-loathing as naturally as he can fly.

“Cas, the things that I did, what I became,” Dean says, slowly, trying to sound matter-of-fact and not quite managing it, “You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out.”

_But I will_ , thinks Cas, before Dean’s sentence is even finished. _Of course I will, how can you ever doubt that?_

But Dean doesn’t know him. And this is not the right time for them to have this conversation. Cas squares his jaw.

“You know what we're all fighting for. And dying for. You know what will happen if we fail,” he says; and then, unable to help himself, he adds, “For what it's worth, I would give anything not to have you do this.”

Dean doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t need to. Cas can feel this thing which has shifted between them all the same.

# α|ω

After Uriel’s treason, after Anna’s cold encouragement, Cas has come to accept that his loyalty lies with Dean first. And when the day finally comes, when Dean asks him to choose, Cas is ready.

This is the end. Today, they will both die.

He can see in Dean’s eyes that Dean knows it perfectly well - when this fail, because it _will_ fail - they are moving against the Host of Heaven, how could they ever be victorious? - Dean will end up back in Hell. This is what he fears most, and yet he's risking it, even embracing it, to save his brother and the entire human race. He's sacrificing himself in a battle he cannot hope to win in exchange for everyone else’s lives. Cas cannot help but remembering the young Trojan prince, Doryclus. He knew the gods had cursed his city - he knew Troy was doomed to destruction, knew that he himself and everyone he cared about would be slaughtered, and yet he’d still fought. This was what Cas had liked about them, these people who’d had no notion of Paradise. They thought they were heading towards a world of shadows, and yet they still did it, all of it - they knew what was right, and they were ready to die for it. 

Dean knows there will be no shadows for him: there will be fire. And yet, he is still willing to do this. Cas has heard him saying it ( _If there's anything worth dying for, Cas, this is it -_ ), and he can see it in his eyes now. For a full second, Dean’s face becomes Doryclus’, and Diodorus’, and then Dion’; and yet, Cas has never seen him more clearly than he does right now. 

He is suddenly filled with a vast sense of the momentous, of unknown mysteries. He never knew what he should demand of himself, he thinks, but it doesn’t matter, because he has not chosen this music he moves to - because _it_ has chosen _him_ \- because Dean is noble and righteous and fierce and his soul is the most beautiful thing Castiel has ever laid his eyes upon. 

Clenching his jaw, he moves his hand away from Dean's mouth and cuts into his own arm.

If Dean is ready to die, then Castiel will bloody well join him.

# α|ω

_With such matters, death is the only answer_ , the executioner had said, and he’d been right.

When Raphael hits with his power of glory and fury and light, Castiel knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, just a heads-up - I've managed to get sick (nothing major, but I do feel a bit delirious), so I don't know if the next chapter will be up tomorrow. I still need to edit it and to make sure I've gotten all the quotes I've used and all that, so I may wait until the weekend or something. It is written, though, so don't worry.  
> And also, if I may: thanks to anyone who's reading this. I started writing it as a birthday gift to myself (turning 34 tomorrow!), because I am a mythology freak and I just wanted to see Cas in a chiton, and then it somehow became a longish thing, and it gave me all the feels, and I know it's a bit weird and it feels very personal, so, again, thanks. I'm happy you like it. Much love.


	5. 2009 AD - 2013 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. This is turning out to be a bit longer than I expected. Sorry. I just fell inside this thing and now I'm trying to claw myself out of it, and it's just -
> 
> *thinks about cas*  
> *sighs*

For a long time, the world is just gone.

And then, sudden and violent, comes darkness, a whole universe of shadows spinning upon its axis - its speed would kill a human, but Jimmy Novak is dead already, torn to shred by Raphael’s blows, and Castiel is now alone in his borrowed body. He watches as reality swirls around him, watches it as it resolves itself into his second life. 

A life which, like his first one, is a gift from his Father, and Castiel marvels at the miracle of it; he sharpens his purpose, breathes around the blessing of his mission.

Because he was brought back to fulfil his duty, and he will do so, whatever the cost.

His gaze skims every soul on Earth, quick and ruthless, until it finds Dean’s - until Castiel sees Dean bleeding and dying on a concrete floor.

The man is nothing to him now. He remembers, as though through fog, having cared for Dean once. He remembers, of course, the long existence they have shared together, the task which was given to him, and this is why anger now spreads through his whole being.

Dean is under God’s protection. Castiel knows as much. His faith has been strengthened by his unexpected resurrection. 

His bond to Dean, or lack thereof, has no bearance in the face of such an extraordinary truth.

Burning with cold purpose, Castiel spreads his wings and claims his place anew. He is Dean Winchester’s guardian. No one, angel or demon, shall dare harm him as long as Castiel lives.

# α|ω

Facing Zachariah was not satisfying; not easy. This world Castiel has been reborn into is both vaster and smaller than the one he left behind. It might be, in fact, a whole other world altogether. Because before - Castiel remembers Dean being the one who kept his whole being in focus, but he remembers it like an adult thinks back on his childhood fears - it is a blurry, confused feeling, completely incomprehensible - and it doesn’t matter, anyway, because now everything he is belongs to his brothers; to the Host.

That they do not want him anymore doesn’t seem to matter. 

Michael and Lucifer are back, and even though Castiel is wary of both (his death hasn’t changed this), he can’t help but listen to their song. He had grown to forget how deeply their absence had carved into his soul. They were the first of his ilk, God’s favourites, most beloved, and Castiel basks in their warmth despite his fear and his misgivings.

And Dean - Dean is nothing to this. 

Or, at least, he should be.

Because Castiel is now fully aware that whatever importance Dean has in the grand scheme of things, it is as Michael’s vessel. Nothing else.

And yet -

Yet Castiel is unable to stay away from him, and he can’t justify his reasons to himself.

Dean puzzles him; concerns him. The long time they spent together is nothing compared to Castiel’s eternal life, and Castiel should not wish to - to -

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and Dean makes a sudden movement of shock, curses, turns around.

“Cas - we’ve _talked_ about this. Personal space?”

Despite his words, his voice is not unfriendly. As he speaks, he glances, briefly, at Castiel’s lips, and Castiel frowns, takes a step back.

A memory comes unbidden to the surface - Dietmar coming closer and closer, trapping him against a wall (Castiel had let him have this: the illusion of strength), breathing against his ear.

_Let me tell you what I am going to do to you._

Castiel blinks the moment away, frowns again.

_Personal space._

“My apologies,” he says, his heart and mind a thousand miles away.

And now is not the time to unravel this enigma which is Dean Winchester; Raphael will not remain on Earth for long. He never does. And his power may not rival Michael’s, or Lucifer’s, but Castiel can still sense it pressing against the top his skull, as treacherous and inexorable as the tide.

“You're serious about this,” says Dean, and again, Castiel has to focus back on him, and that is proving difficult, because the world just doesn’t make sense anymore. 

It’s like whoever put him back did it without care or reason; like they just forced the pieces together and turned all the buttons on. His brothers’ voices are loud (too loud) inside his mind; Michael’s (stern and commanding) and Lucifer’s (sweet and syrupy) are loudest of all. Castiel doesn’t know how to anchor himself here, where he needs to be (right in this motel room, with Dean).

And Dean is not making sense either. Castiel thought he knew him, and instead - he has all these memories of them, but they’re not helping - they float around him like snowflakes inside a globe - Dean stabbing him, Dean glancing at him, then away; Dean’s constant, inescapable anger.

“So, what, I'm Thelma and you're Louise and we're just going to hold hands and sail off this cliff together?” he says now, and Castiel has no idea what he’s talking about. 

Is this a reference to his past? Does he want them to hold hands? Didn’t he just ask him to keep his distance?

Castiel hears Raphael’s voice in the distance; hears his power focus and spread out as he finds a vessel. He barely sees the way Dean is looking at him, the way he expected - what? an answer, perhaps, or a smile. Anything. And then, Dean turns away from him.

“Give me one good reason why I should do this,” he says, and Castiel finds he has an answer ready, only it’s not an answer he understands or can ever give.

“Because you're Michael's vessel and no angel will dare harm you,” he says instead, and the words leave a bitter taste inside his mouth.

“Oh, so I'm your bullet shield,” Dean replies, and there is a hint of bitterness in his voice as well; also sarcasm, perhaps, and something else, something undefinable.

Castiel opens his mouth, speaks without thinking.

“I need your help because you are the only one who'll help me. Please.”

And Dean says yes. Castiel knew he would say yes, but he doesn’t know how he knew that. They share a long, uncomfortable car ride as Dean plays his songs of love and war and glances at him, then back at the road. Castiel can feel his confusion, can taste it in his mouth. He knows Dean wonders - he’s unsure about Castiel’s loyalties; he’s unwilling to ask for help, to accept that there _is_ a Heaven; that anyone from ‘up there’ would help him. And yet Dean also wants to believe. He knows he owes his life to Castiel; knows Castiel died for him, and this matters. Because to Dean, words mean nothing. He is, himself, a master of empty speeches. He can become anyone, he will say anything to get his way. That’s why, perhaps, he never accepted Castiel’s explanation at face value. Even when Castiel had snapped, had said the unthinkable ( _I did it, all of it, for you_ ), Dean had not been capable to accept it for what it was. 

Which is ironic, really, because Castiel had not understood what he’d said, either. The words had come to him in anger. He had doubted their wisdom only when he’d sensed Sam’s incredulity, Bobby’s raw shock. 

_I need to be more careful_ , Castiel thinks, and yet he glances up at the mirror as Dean changes into his FBI clothes in the backseat. He catches a glimpse of naked skin, and then Dean’s thoughtful frown. He lets his eyes fall. He breathes in, then out. 

“We're humans,” says Dean, five minutes later, and seemingly without thinking, without realizing this violates those rules of personal space he’s tried so hard to make Castiel understand, he reaches out, fixes Castiel’s tie, closes his fingers on the lapels of his trenchcoat. “And when humans want something really, really bad, we lie.”

Dean doesn’t know he’s doing it, and, if pressed, he wouldn’t know why he’s doing it, but Castiel understands the truth of it without needing to ask about Dean’s contradictions. Dean doesn’t remember their centuries together, but his _soul_ does. To be in each other’s company is as natural as breathing. There is no hesitation there; no real distance between them.

Castiel looks down at Dean’s dark head as Dean squares his jaw, his mind already on something else, and pushes the fake ID inside Castiel’s pocket. He wonders if this is supposed to mean something - them knowing each other so well, and for so long; if he’s supposed to feel anything. If he _did_ feel anything before Raphael killed him, because he doesn’t know, because the world is so chaotic now, he's afraid he would never notice a missing piece of himself.

But Dean seems perfectly happy, so Castiel tries to relax into it. As long as Dean doesn’t feel anything either, then surely it’s acceptable not to?

# α|ω

Although, it is perhaps unfair to say that Dean feels nothing. Dean _does_ feel something. He feels so many things, in fact, that Castiel is having trouble keeping them straight inside his own mind. And he is trying to - he’s doing his best to ignore the bubbling of Dean’s thoughts, as unruly and unpredictable as the sizzling of a fire, as Dean looks at him, and finally approaches him.

“Do we have any chance of surviving this?” he asks, and Castiel keeps looking forward, tries to push all the unspoken words out of his mind, because they’re difficult and dangerous and confusing.

“You do,” he says, curtly, because that is the truth of it.

“So odds are you're a dead man tomorrow,” Dean comments, and again, Dean’s mind flares up, expands, then is quiet again.

What is he feeling, exactly? Regret, mostly. And guilt. Castiel understands neither. Dean is not responsible for him (for his choices): it’s the opposite way around. Why would Dean feel at fault for whatever is happening here?

His quiet _yes_ comes out a bit slanted, but Dean takes no notice. Castiel knows this about him: Dean was bred to seize the moment, to press home his advantages. He was uncertain and a bit maudlin before, but now he senses Castiel’s resolve weaken, he takes control.

“Well. Last night on earth. What are your plans?” he asks, and this time, his feelings are bright red - amusement, aggressiveness, and - perhaps - the slight tinges of lust.

“I just thought I'd sit here quietly,” Castiel replies, a bit miserably, as he tries to ignore it all - he doesn’t want to die again, after all, not until his task is done, because his Father has brought him back for a reason, and it would be foolish (shameful) to -

“Come on, anything? Booze, women?” asks Dean, and now his voice is way too close.

Castiel glances up at him, then away.

“You have _been_ with women before. Right? Or an angel, at least?”

_I have been with you_ , Castiel thinks, puzzled by his own memories (this man’s mouth against his; this man’s hands on his hips, drawing him closer); by the intensity, the _danger_ of them.

But, of course, he can’t say anything.

“You mean to tell me you've never been up there doing a little cloud-seeding?”

Red again. No aggression this time. Amusement, yes, still, and also a sort of fascinated curiosity, a _what if_ which turns Castiel’s heart upside down, leaves him uncomfortable and more confused than ever.

“I've never had occasion to,” he snaps, and he closes his eyes, tries to centre himself.

This is too much. Castiel has cut himself off of Heaven, and that is an open wound, a constant throbbing which will, in the end, rob him of his very reason; tear him apart and destroy him. And yet, Heaven never was any help before ( _My help comes_ , thinks Castiel, at once, in answer to this treacherous thought; but the end of the prayer will not come). His superiors, for instance, would never understand this confusion inside him Castiel can’t unravel. He considers it briefly - sees Zachariah rolling his eyes, hears Michael’s loud disapproval, even Lucifer’s smile. He has no orders, no directives, but none would be helpful. His brothers see humanity as a tool to be used, and Dean - Dean is different. Castiel finds himself retreating from Dean’s mind, almost afraid of Dean’s next words, of the way Dean is looking at him.

“All right,” Dean finally says, grabbing his jacket. “Let me tell you something. There are two things I know for certain. One, Bert and Ernie are gay. Two, you are _not_ gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch. Let's go.”

Castiel stares at him as he walks away. His world is less knowable than ever, and Castiel cannot put the pieces together, because every time Dean speaks, every time he says his name, that cocksure _Cas_ no one has ever used before him, everything falls apart again.

Later, when Dean starts to laugh and puts a hand around him, Castiel finds himself on the verge of something deep and dark, and he is not sure whether he should step into it or turn back.

# α|ω

Raphael is no help. Castiel had hoped facing him would - would resolve the issue, somehow. Here is the archangel responsible for his death. Here is someone with answers. But Raphael is not interested in sharing them. He is weary and tarnished; a long winter sensing its own end is near.

And it is only afterwards that Castiel sees it: he’s spoken to Raphael as Dean would have; he’s been insolent and disobedient, yes, but he’s also been childish and rude. Downright suicidal. When he does realize (when he starts to suspect what this means), the confines of Dean’s black car are too much. Without saying a word, he steps away from it, cutting himself free from Dean’s disappointment and sudden sense of loss.

Instead, and without any conscious decision to do so, he finds himself in the white loneliness of the Kushan Pass. His feet leave no trace on the snow, and his human skin feels no cold. Castiel yells until he cannot hear his brothers’ voices anymore; he yells until even Dean’s feelings, six thousand miles away, curl up at the corners and crumble like burning paper.

# α|ω

According to Dean's songs, time heals all wounds. The problem is the Castiel doesn't _have_ any time. To an immortal being, days and weeks are irrelevant. The months until his death (and Castiel knows he will die again, he feels the thing approaching, slow and sweet) jumble together and then multiply upon themselves like tassels of light in a kaleidoscope.

Castiel tries to look for God first, and finds he cannot feel God inside his soul anymore. He feels God’s love, of course, because that is the essence of everything he is, and what all angels are made of (just like humans are flesh and mercy and blessed Chaos); but these days, it’s more a legacy than anything else. Castiel turns upon himself as the most sacred places on Earth revolve around him. He rises his eyes up - sees the bluish lights of the Sainte Chapelle in Paris, and Michelangelo’s paintings in Rome, and the golden reflections of the a thousand statues of the God of Mercy in Kyoto. He ends up closing his eyes and just breathing it in - the flowers, the incense, the constant murmuring of endless prayers - the sick, the bereaved; those who have taken a life, and those who wish to give up their own. Castiel keeps his fingers closed around Dean’s amulet, but he doesn’t feel God at all. God is just not there.

Instead, Castiel feels Dean. He sees a boy of twelve in mismatched clothes, sees the love glowing around him like pure light as he looks at his brother and places the necklace around his own neck. He sees the two children falling asleep in the same bed, a black and white movie playing softly in the background. He sees Dean turning around in his sleep and cradle Sam, check his little brother is covered by the blankets without even waking up.

The images are overpowering. Castiel tries to step out of them - unseen and unseeable, he walks among the _stupas_ of the Borobudur, allowing the fingers of his left hand to graze the stone as his right remains closed around Dean’s amulet. In desperation, he opens his heart to the peace and quiet surrounding him; to the slow centuries which made this place, built it up and passed over it like a gentle wind. He focuses on the people around him - on the woman who just lost her husband, on the young couple hoping for a child - and then on the distant horizon - all in vain. Every single one of these things is his Father’s work and masterpiece. And yet, they are not _Him_.

And so Castiel goes back, and fights. He remains at Dean’s side through his increasing pessimism and despair; he remains with Dean when he feels his own strength falter and weaken; he remains with Dean despite his better judgement, because he just doesn’t know where else to go (where else he belongs).

Lucifer’s voice is loud inside his mind, now. He finds himself looking askance at Sam, and wonders how Sam is withstanding something Castiel can barely fight himself.

Because Lucifer is a safe haven. Every word he whispers is a sweet promise; a place to rest. 

Castiel is glad Dean can be spared this, and he slowly learns to like Sam, even to trust Sam, for his stubbornness to refuse Lucifer.

Castiel is sometimes not so sure he can do it, himself. He finds himself drinking until he passes out, and he has disturbing dreams about the end of all things - about a possible future where he’s human and bitter and lost. And then he wakes up again and stumbles back to Dean, and keeps fighting.

It is to be expected, really, that their plan goes sideways. It was never a plan to begin with, just the last option of a group of castaways driven crazy by the sun and the salty immensity around them. 

Castiel can just raise his head and stare as the white light that is Lucifer’s joy erupts from the broken-down windows of a Detroit building. He hears, vaguely, Bobby curse next to him, but it is not important. Nothing is important now. It’s over.

He tries to make Dean understand, but he knew the task would be arduous. None of this makes sense for someone who’s limited to the reality a human can see. For everyone else, though - for Castiel - the world is suddenly filled with colours as Lucifer smiles down upon it. It’s a dangerous thing, and yet it’s intoxicating. A promise not of death, but of peace.

And yet, Lucifer will lose. Lucifer _must_ lose. Castiel has lost all hope - of his own survival, of Dean’s, of the world’s - but he knows as much. Lucifer is smooth and enticing and a perfect, breathtaking warrior. But Michael is better. Michael is everything.

“I'm gonna go talk to Sam,” says Dean, closing the trunk of his car with a loud bang, and Castiel looks away.

“You just don't give up,” says Bobby, and Dean glares at him

“It's _Sam_!” he says, and Castiel can taste on his tongue everything Dean is not saying, all the things he’s not even aware he should be saying. For merely a second, he blinks himself back to that badly-heated room in Paris, he sees Damien look at his brother, sees everything that ever passed between them, bleeding together in a mess of pinks and blues - sees Damien, aged twelve, hugging Stéphane at their parents’ funeral; he sees him working and stealing and doing dangerous, disgusting things to keep his brother alive; he hears Stéphane’s pleas, sliding from disapproval to cynicism to naked fear when Damien tells him he’s enrolled as a dragoon and will soon walk into the raging war. Castiel can feel, only just, the cold wall behind his back, and the warmth of the fire against his left leg, as he glances at the brothers again. As he sees Stéphane laughing, then sober up as he smiles at Damien and raises his glass at him; and then, inevitably, he turns to Damien, catches the fondness in the man’s eyes as he smiles back at his brother.

_It’s Sam_ , Dean has said, and he doesn’t need to add anything else. It’s been Sam for a long time. Castiel knows this better than most.

And that is why Dean must be prevented from leaving. 

“If you couldn't reach him there, you're certainly not gonna be able to on the battlefield,” he says, quietly, and Dean turns to face him, anger and guilt and despair flashing like blue beams of light around him.

“Well, if we've already lost, I guess I got nothing to lose, right?”

Castiel hesitates.

“I just want you to understand,” he adds, slowly. “The only thing that you're gonna see out there is Michael killing your brother.”

Dean watches him, then, broken, undone. And then he squares his jaw.

“Well, then I won't gonna let him die alone,” he says, and Castiel follows him.

Because, well.

# α|ω

Castiel had thought he wouldn’t care anymore, one way or the other, and yet _confronting_ Michael - _banishing_ Michael is the most difficult thing he’s ever done. It goes against everything he was ever supposed to do or be. When Michael is hit by the Holy Oil, Castiel feels it burning on his own skin.

And when Lucifer shifts his gaze upon him, the fire flares up, is real and scalding over Castiel’s Grace. 

Because Castiel has never known Lucifer like this; has never known what it is like to feel the Archangel’s weight upon him - not his polite disinterest, not his feigned benevolence, but _this_ , a mission - a sense of purpose so sharp Castiel is left bleeding on the edges of it.

The fire against his skin is now too hot to bear; and when Lucifer snaps his fingers, the whole world goes up in flames.

_I am become Time, destroyer of worlds_ , says Lucifer’s voice in Castiel’s mind; and then there is silence.

# α|ω

His third life starts better than his second, more quiet and full of potential, but as he looks down at the broken and bloody and desperate mess that is Dean, Castiel begins to wonder if Fate has chosen to push them inside each other’s lives. Because now Castiel keeps dying, and Dean is the one who seems to be able to survive against all odds.

Castiel blesses him and smiles at him as Dean stands up, slowly, and stares at him, his green eyes suddenly too big and awed and fearful against his lightly freckled skin.

“Cas, are you _alive_? Are you God?”

The name - that short sound, that _Cas_ \- is everything, and nothing at all. Castiel smiles.

“That's a nice compliment. But no. Although, I do believe he brought me back. New and improved.”

_Endings are impossible_ , says the prophet’s voice inside Castiel’s mind. _It’s the ending - it’s all supposed to end up to something_.

Castiel smiles through it. He can see it without trying - the dark, cluttered space where Chuck tries to make sense of the visions inside his mind. It’s constrictive and unpleasant and smells like cheap alcohol, but Castiel doesn’t have it inside his heart to hold it against the man, because today, everything makes sense.

He’s alive. God brought him back. God has a purpose for him.

What this purpose is, is not yet clear, but Castiel is not worried.

He also knows that something is still missing - something which has to do with the angry man driving next to him - but he’s not worried about that either. 

He will do his Father’s will, now. Nothing else matters.

“What are you gonna do now?” asks Dean, a bit wistfully, cutting into his thoughts.

Castiel blinks himself back to the present, and smiles at the beautiful reality, at the concreteness of it all.

“Return to Heaven, I suppose,” he says.

“Heaven?”

“With Michael in the Cage, I'm sure it's total anarchy up there.”

Human words, of course, don’t do it justice. Angels have no free will. They have gone through the motions for three thousand years, because, even though Michael was in no state to give orders, they all knew what they were supposed to do. But now - Castiel would not be surprised if war would flare up, and this must be avoided at all cost.

“So, what, you're the new sheriff in town?”

Castiel can hear, faintly, Dean’s sarcasm and disapproval, but finds he cannot quite grasp them. Dean’s feelings do not matter.

“I like that. Yeah. I suppose I am,” he says, and Dean scoffs.

“Wow. God gives you a brand-new, shiny set of wings, and suddenly you're his bitch again.”

Dean has been blasphemous before. Castiel doesn’t mind.

“I don't know what God wants,” he admits, and he’s not even aware of the fact that the distance between them is once again disappearing; that he’s only just been resurrected, and here he is, confiding in Dean, instead of leaving him behind and forgetting all about him. “I don't know if he'll even return. It just - it seems like the right thing to do.”

“Well, if you do see him, you tell him I'm coming for him next,” Dean says, and, for the first time, Castiel lets his eyes travel over his pretty, regular features.

“You're _angry_ ,” he states, almost in surprise, distracted by the mastery of it all - by the faint freckles on Dean’s cheek, by the sound his soul makes as he tries to hold himself together; as he tries to will his heart to keep beating.

“That's an understatement.”

“He helped. Maybe even more than we realize.”

“That's easy for you to say. He brought _you_ back. But what about _Sam_? What about _me_ , huh? Where's _my_ grand prize? All I got is my brother in a hole!”

Castiel frowns.

“You got what you asked for, Dean. No paradise. No hell. Just more of the same. What would you rather have? Peace or freedom?”

And Castiel steps out of the car, without waiting for Dean’s answer, because he feels a sudden urge of something undefinable. He wonders if what he is coursing through him is, in fact, Dean’s own sadness; if he is tasting Dean’s conflicted feelings, and he just can’t handle them. Because he knows - he can read it on Dean’s face - that Dean wants to die, now. That he resents Cas for bringing him back from the brink. That he can feel inside himself the cold certainty - he will never be able to save Sam; his brother is gone forever. And yet, at the same time Dean wants to live, because this is what he promised Sam. That he’d go back to that dark-haired woman, that he’d build a life with her.

Castiel remains on the side of the road and watches Dean’s black car disappear in the darkness as he tries to step away from Dean’s mind, to make sense of it.

Angels were not created to feel, and human feelings are hard and messy and completely other.

Castiel pushes against the pain and sadness and rage still flooding inside him, but he can’t forget about it, not fully.

And this is why he unsheathes his blade and spreads his wings and goes back to Hell.

# α|ω

Dean’s voice never goes away.

It’s not prayers, and it’s not even fully-formed thoughts. It’s more - glimpses of Castiel’s own self as seen through Dean’s eyes. It’s - _longing_ , almost.

Castiel is puzzled by it at first, and then he learns to ignore it, just as he tries to ignore everything else. The inlaid mess of it all - Dean’s strange, unspoken wishes; Michael’s rage and humiliation; Lucifer’s insane laughter - becomes a weight Castiel learns how to carry around with him wherever he goes. He knows he was given a mission, and he will not stray from his path.

And then Dean starts praying again.

His prayers were never very respectful to start with, but now they are downright insulting. Castiel would be offended if he couldn’t hear the desperation behind them.

Still, there is too much to do in Heaven for him to concern himself with the problems of one human.

Castiel keeps focusing on the thought, turns it around in his fingers and polishes it until it becomes almost convincing, because the truth is, he doesn’t trust himself around Dean. Not anymore. 

Because last time they’ve seen each other, Castiel got impulsive.

He still can’t explain what happened, and how. Sam’s question had been to direct (“So, you like him better or something?”) and Castiel, after all, has spent his entire existence under the obligation to answer orders.

“Dean and I do share a more profound bond,” he’d said, and even now, Castiel still hears himself saying the words, still feels the beginning of - of _something_ , deep inside his stomach.

And even worse - only a few minutes later, Dean had tried to deny this, to belittle a connection forged in fire and blood over three thousands years, and Castiel had gotten - _angry_.

Which makes no sense at all.

The fact that Dean doesn’t remember is the whole point.

And now Michael is in the Cage, Dean is free to - to fry breakfast for a little boy and to curl around that woman’s warm back every night.

And Castiel couldn’t care less.

In fact, Castiel is concentrating so hard on not caring that he finds himself not caring about anything else by association. When he’d seen Balthazar, for instance - Castiel knows, just as you know you’ve had a nightmare when you wake up from it and find you’ve already forgotten the shape of it, he _knows_ that he spent centuries agonizing over his friend’s death; but now the details of that pain are gone. Castiel looks at Balthazar and all he sees is an obstacle on the path God has created for him.

And he _knows_ , somewhere inside him, that this is not completely right; yet he turns his back on the half-forgotten dream of a time when he could feel (and did Dean do this? did Dean’s humanity seep into him, contaminate him, just as Castiel’s strength and determination pooled into him?), and steps towards the dawn of war and cold purpose awaiting him. 

But then, Dean prays again, and this time it is real. It is unspoken - Dean is probably not even aware he’s doing it - but it’s so intense Castiel finds himself stopping in mid step and swaying under the intensity of it.

Dean is now thinking he misses Castiel, and he’s angry about it - he doesn’t want to miss some selfish bastard who comes and goes as he pleases and has given him nothing not pain, and he’s not wrong there. Caring is an unnecessary luxury. But Dean still misses him, and therefore, when he finally puts his thoughts into words, Castiel finds himself responding.

And Dean is not happy.

“You asked me to be here, and I came,” says Castiel, but he already knows it won’t be enough; that it won’t even be close to enough.

“I - I've been asking you to be here for _days_ , you dick!”

Castiel lowers his eyes. Dean is confusing him. He hasn’t been walking the Earth for a long time. He’s forgotten how humans can feel several things at once, how anger and guilt and fondness can slide around in a man’s mind until they fit together seamlessly. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t know how to help Dean, and he’s too distracted by everything else - by the voice of his brothers calling him back; by the venomous threats Raphael is pushing under his skin - to notice he has already decided to help Dean, whatever he needs.

Frowning, he takes a step closer to this man he’d once swore to protect, and he pours him a glass of whiskey as he listens to his insults and his remonstrations. He remembers doing that before; remembers sharing a jug of sweet wine with a sixteen-year-old boy - remembers the boy’s green eyes looking at him askance, curious and willing and completely exhilarated.

Dean doesn’t look at him. He looks down at the glass instead, and he squares his jaw.

“What happened to you, Cas? You used to be human, or at least like one.”

There is no answer to this, or, rather, there are many answers. Death happened to him. Time happened to him. God happened to him, because Dean is no longer his mission, and therefore Castiel does not need to be human; not anymore.

“I'm at war. Certain - regrettable things are now required of me,” he says in the end, and Dean’s sorrow and self-reproach colour the room around them in soft colours - yellow and orange and purple.

It’s beautiful, and yet also sad. Castiel breathes it in, closes his eyes.

But he knows he can’t stay here. Veritas is powerful - too powerful. If she should ever step too close - Castiel is on the verge of forgetting why, exactly, it’s so important he keep lying to Dean, or, rather, omitting the truth of it all - the centuries they spent side by side. He’s afraid to consider that maybe the reason he’s not saying anything is not selfless at all; that it has nothing to do with how Dean sees himself (a tool for a job; a murderer who’s going to die again soon, and this time for good; someone who can never allow himself to love anyone else, because he was made to hurt and destroy, not to nurture and care), but, rather, with how Dean sees _Castiel_. Despite everything, there is still something between them. Castiel can feel it, even if he doesn’t want to. It’s buried deep, but it’s sharp, and if he’s not careful, Castiel will step over it and cut himself open. And maybe this is what he’s doing right now, because he doesn’t want Dean finding out he’s lied to him - that he has stood by and watched him get killed over and over again - that he’s never -

And there is a war to be fought. There is no time to dwell on this.

# α|ω

When Crowley comes knocking, things get messier and uglier. Castiel can’t refuse him: there is a debt there, and even if he can no longer quite remember why he went to Crowley in the first place (he senses, vaguely, the desperation which had torn him apart then, but it is a faraway thing; it screeches once, loud and out of tune, and then is gone), Castiel will honour his promise.

Dean has nothing to do with it. Castiel is not thinking about his safety and peace of mind; about his need to rest; about a body and mind who have been slashed into too many times to count, about someone who’s brave and pure and utterly breathtaking -

No, Castiel is not thinking about him at all.

And so when Crowley beckons, Castiel follows him.

Dean’s words ( _Cas, you’ll call, right? If you get into real trouble?_ ) fade and shatter as Castiel steps into the shadows.

He is so intent and focused he manages to fool himself to perfection. Crowley, however, is a different matter.

“You're distracted, and that makes me nervous,” he says, even if he doesn’t look nervous - he still has a bloody instrument in his hands, and he looks all shades of mean and confident.

“I am holding up my end,” says Castiel, quietly, and Crowley smirks.

“Ah, yes. But is that _all_ you're holding? See, the stench of that Impala's all over your overcoat, angel. I thought we'd agreed - no more nights out with the boys.”

Yes. It’s true. It was agreed upon. Castiel frowns at Crowley, and the demon smiles right back at him, as if he knows something Castiel does not. It makes him uncomfortable and annoyed.

And when Crowley accuses him of having a conflict of interest, there is nothing Castiel can say. He believes, firmly, that Dean is no longer his mission; that he’s done what he had to do, and can now step away. And yet he doesn’t _want_ to. He finds himself going back, again and again, and what Crowley says is not wrong. Castiel watches over the Winchesters still. Despite his death, despite his resurrection, despite the desperate need Heaven has placed in him - Castiel cannot avert his eyes from them. From Dean.

“Please. I'm _begging_ you, Castiel. Just _kill_ the Winchesters.”

Castiel thinks about them - he knows Bobby and Sam have seen something wrong with him, and now suspect Castiel’s death has changed him, damaged him, perhaps, in some secret, dangerous way. He didn’t listen to them, though. All he could see was Dean, and the look on his face as Dean had defended him. He’d remembered the uneasy way Dietmar had looked at him in that lazy summer afternoon ( _I like you, though; why do I_ like _you?_ ), thought the appearance of that same expression on Dean’s face could spell nothing but trouble.

Slowly, he blinks back from the memories and faces Crowley, who’s looking at him like a child begging for a Christmas present.

“No,” he says, firmly, and Crowley clenches his hands more firmly on the blade he’s holding.

Castiel isn’t bothered. Crowley may be powerful and ambitious, but he’s nothing compared to the Grace and power of a seraph.

What he hasn’t counted on, though, is that Crowley would understand him better than he understands himself.

“You don't think I know what this is all about? The big lie - the Winchesters still buy it. The _good_ Cas, the _righteous_ Cas. And long as they still believe it, you get to believe it. Well, I got news for you, _kitten_. A whore is a whore is a _whore_ ,” he snarls, and Castiel suddenly sees it - all of it.

Nothing has changed, not really. Dean is still at the centre of it all - it’s what anchors him to reality; the guidelines by which he defines himself.

It never bothered him before, but now it does, because now Castiel doesn’t understand - he knows he used to feel something for Dean, something more focused than this vague sympathy and fondness, but now he can’t remember how to feel more than that. He is an angel; he’s not built for that. It is irritating, and a humiliation, in a way, because without this - this _something more_ tying them together - Dean is not the fixed point in a storm: it’s the weight pulling him down. It’s what he’s preventing him to fight efficiently; to fight to win (to fight to kill).

This is a string he should want to cut, and yet, he knows that he cannot.

He approaches Crowley, low and dangerous, pins him against the dirty wall before Crowley can even move.

“I'm only gonna say this _once_. If you touch a hair on their heads, I will tear it all down. Our arrangement - everything. I'm still an angel, and I will _bury_ you.”

# α|ω

Castiel knew the end would come, but he never expected Dean would be the one to bring it about; and he never expected it to hit him as hard as he does.

He’s been lying to Dean for a long time. And those other lies, the lies of the past few months - they were necessary and noble. He’s lied to protect Dean, to allow him to have a normal life (a normal life without him, says a bitter voice in his brain, and Castiel silences it).

And yet when Dean looks at him from beyond the orange flames of a Holy Fire, Castiel finds he has no words.

“You got to look at me, man. You got to level with me and tell me what's going on. Look me in the eye and tell me you're not working with _Crowley_.”

It’s not even what Dean is saying. It’s the hope that flickers around him like a halo. Castiel can see the pinkish colour of it - there’s something else mixed it with it - affection - love, perhaps - and has to lower his eyes from the brightness of it.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean says, and the pink light fades into nothingness.

“Let me explain,” says Castiel, and there is a sudden panic in his throat. “I did it to _protect_ you. I did it to protect _all_ of you.”

It hurts, all of it. That Sam could lose his faith in him, after all Castiel has done - after protecting him and helping him even if Sam had been created for one purpose and one purpose only (to welcome Lucifer and destroy the world). That even Bobby would turns his head away, when Bobby is the only one besides Crowley to truly understand (Castiel has not forgotten his sharp intake of breath at Castiel’s dangerous confession, and he knows Bobby has been watching him closely ever since - trying to make sure, trying to make _quite sure_ that -). And what hurts the most, of course, is Dean. Dean’s disappointment, his affection for Castiel slipping through Castiel’s fingers like muddy water.

“Raphael will kill us all. He'll turn the world into a graveyard,” he says, miserably. “I had no choice.”

“No, you had a choice. You just made the _wrong_ one,” says Dean, and he’s not wrong, but he doesn’t know - he doesn’t _understand_ -

“It's complicated.”

_You deserved peace_ , Castiel thinks, accepting the truth of it at last. _And I never want to be this close to you again because I don’t know what we have between us and it scares me to death._

But, of course, Dean can’t hear his thoughts. He is but human.

“No, actually, it's _not_ , and you know that. Why else would you keep this whole thing a secret, unless you knew that it was wrong? When crap like this comes around, we _deal_ with it - like we always have. What we don't do is we _don't_ go out and make another deal with the Devil!”

“It sounds so simple when you say it like that. Where were you when I needed to hear it?”

“I was there. Where were _you_?”

They stare at each other, Dean’s green eyes darkened by the flames between them, and there is something so fierce in his gaze Castiel is sure - for one mad second - that Dean _knows_. That Dean _remembers_. He keeps looking at Dean, at the familiar (beloved) soul shining out of his eyes, and he can almost feel it - he understands now, that what he felt for this man was _love_ \- not love like a human would experience it, of course, because that’s impossible - because angels cannot love - but still, a kind of desperate longing, as powerful as his dull heart would allow. Castiel stares at Dean and sees Dion - Dion looking up at him in his soldier’s uniform, Dion taking a step towards him, smiling at him in easy recognition.

_You are the god who walks in my dreams._

“You should've come to us for help, Cas,” says Dean, softly, and the regret in his voice is loud enough to make Castiel break and fall.

“Maybe,” he says, and whatever he was going to add is drowned by the voice of hundreds of demons howling in the night around them. “It's too late now. I can't turn back now. I can't.”

Castiel sees it happening - sees the light flare up around Dean’s body again - it’s red this time, it’s that dogged determination Dean sometimes gets into - it’s his suicidal need to protect others - to -

“It's not too late. Damn it, Cas! We can _fix_ this!”

“Dean, it's not broken,” says Castiel only just managing to get the words out. The darkness is closing in around them. There is so much he needs to say to Dean - he sees that now - he owes this man the truth, and he understands that whatever happens, he will stay with Dean - die for him if necessary - the love that grew between them was too strong, in the end, to be rooted out, and -

There is a loud noise in Castiel’s ears. Crowley’s servants, out for blood. 

“Run,” he pleads. “You have to run now! _Run!_ ”

Bobby and Sam disappear, but Dean remains for another long, agonizing second. It’s as if he can feel it as well, this thing between them, growing ever brighter, refusing to let go. Castiel lets his barriers fall, allows himself to finally remember, all of it - how his sense of duty had gradually morphed into affection, and then changed again - he wills Dean to look in his eyes and see it - to remember the time they clung to each other under the falling snow, the time Castiel had dared to say the words for the first time.

_I love you. I have loved you for a very, very long time, and I will continue to love you until my last breath._

Something shifts in the light around Dean. It becomes softer, gentler, and yet there is so much sadness in it Castiel can’t bear to look at it any longer. He lowers his head, and when he looks up again Dean is gone.

# α|ω

As soon as the demons snuff out the Holy Fire, Castiel starts to hear the Leviathans calling for him. It’s subtle at first - a mumble of distant voices, a sound which draws you in, invites you to explore and discover, but it’s still distracting.

Castiel tries to push it back. Despite what he told Balthazar, he doesn’t know what will happen after Purgatory is open. But if there is still a chance to win this war, and a chance to fix his - his _connection_ with Dean, he must try. Which is why, as soon as he hears Dean’s fury and pain, he walks in next to him, and kills the demon who’d dared to threaten him.

But Dean is not happy about it. His pain intensifies, takes on a blackish tinge.

“I don't believe a word that's coming out of your mouth,” he says, and that hurts, because whatever has happened between them - even when Dean was a teenage boy in dirty clothes, even when Dean hadn’t know him at all, he’d always, always trusted him.

Castiel hadn’t realized how important this trust was for him; not until now, not until Dean had snatched it back.

“I thought you said that we were like family. Well I think that too,” he says, and his voice almost breaks when he sees Dean look away. “Shouldn't trust run both ways?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Cas, I just can't,” he says, seemingly forcing himself to look at Castiel again, and Castiel remembers a different time - remembers a time when Dean couldn’t keep his eyes off him - remembers feelings Dean’s gaze on him, even when he wasn’t in the room; remembers Dean’s quiet curiosity, his almost longing.

All that has been snuffed out now, as if it never existed at all. For the first time in a long time - for the first time, perhaps, since Dean was dragged to Hell by Lilith’s hounds - Castiel feels hopelessness and despair mounting inside him.

He’d always thought, pridefully, arrogantly, that Dean couldn’t do this without him; and he’s now come to realize, at the worst possible moment, that the truth is vastly different: the truth is that he himself can’t do this without Dean.

“Dean, I do everything that you ask,” he pleads, taking two steps forward, wishing he could move even closer. “I always come when you call, and I am your friend. Still, despite your - lack of faith in me, and now your threats. I just saved you, yet again. Has anyone but your closest kin ever done more for you? All I ask is this one thing.”

“Trust your plan to pop Purgatory?”

Castiel looks away, then up at Dean again.

“I've earned that, Dean,” he says quietly, and he knows it’s not enough - that it will not be enough. The dark gray around Dean is becoming darker still.

It’s over.

“Stand behind me, the one time I ask.”

It’s over. 

“You're asking me to stand down?” asks Dean, closing the distance between them, getting right in his face. He looks pained and broken and mad enough to punch him.

“Dean.”

_It’s over._

“That's the same damn ransom note that Crowley handed me. You know that, right? Well no thanks. I'll find them myself. In fact, why don't you go back to Crowley and tell him that I said you can both kiss my ass.”

Castiel lowers his head, walks away. 

Three thousand years of friendship - of _love_ \- all over. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does - he is an angel, and once he gets the souls - once Heaven is fixed - he can return to a life of quiet solitude. He can close his eyes and pray and ignore the carnage below.

They were right, he thinks. All of them. 

He hears his own voice, from centuries away - _Loving is its own purpose_ \- and he almost laughs at the foolishness of it.

There is only one thing left for him to do here. He must find Dean’s friend, make sure she’s safe. He was once tasked to protect Dean; he owes him that much. Once he does that, then -

# α|ω

“I wish this changed anything.”

“I know. So do I.”

# α|ω

At first, Castiel has no memory at all of his time as God. That _thing_ \- because whatever it was, of course, it wasn’t a god - it was a corrupted, sick version of one - had taken him over, and the Leviathans had finished the job. Castiel can’t remember anything when he wakes up in Purgatory. For the longest five seconds of his life, he doesn’t know anything anymore, and then he turns his head and he sees Dean, and it’s like a light turns on inside him.

The people he’s killed (the _brothers_ he’s killed). The long walk inside a river which, he knew, was going to drown him, not make him holy. Going to bed to bed every night with a woman he didn’t know - he remembers her hand, light as air, curled around his hip - not demanding, not possessive: just there. Castiel had tried to breathe around it, because he’d felt no right to accept what was so freely given. He remembers the asylum - he remembers Lucifer. He remembers the long months of fear which have come after that - how he’d tried, and failed, to collect his broken soul from the ground and put it back together.

And now, in a bitter and ironic twist of fate, now he’s whole again. Now he knows what he must do.

He’d once thought his mission had come to an end. It hasn’t. Dean will _always_ be his mission.

Without saying a word, Castiel walks away, leaving a trail of light and Grace for every monster to find.

# α|ω

What surprises and shocks Castiel is that Dean will not give up. He’d fully expected him to - as the days pass, he’s started to remember more and more - he knows he hurt Sam, and that can never be forgiven - Dean will never, _ever_ forgive him for that - and he can feel the scars on his skin of every one of his brothers he’s killed - he looks at them, sometimes, and even though the skin on his chest is perfectly smooth, he still sees the wounds, all of them, because that’s something else that’s on him; that’s blood he spilled, a sin which will never be washed clean. 

Because after all that time, the archangels had come back; had wanted to set the world to rights; and Castiel had plotted and conspired to kill two of them; had succeeded in killing another one.

Raphael might have been weary and misguided and drunk on his own power, but his murder was still sacrilege.

Castiel deserves to be here. He deserves to fight for his life, every day, sunrise to sunset.

What he doesn’t deserve are Dean’s prayers, but he hears them anyway.

They are angry at first, and then slide into panic as Dean fears he’s been killed; and then they stop for a few days; and when they start again, they are this weird, disconnected thing which means Dean is not actually praying; that he’s not getting past the standard formula ( _Castiel, angel of tears, angel of Thursday, I pray to you now_ ) in anything resembling words. What Castiel hears, every evening for months on end, are Dean’s memories and hopes and feelings. His deep, desperate longing.

_Dean loves me_ , he marvels, because the thing is suddenly there, naked and clear between them, at the worst possible moment. Because Dean is thinking about him in ways he’s never thought about him before. He’s imagining (remembering?) Castiel’s lips against his own. He’s conjuring up Castiel’s smell (clear mountain air and the faded musk of Jimmy Novak’s aftershave). He’s taking a step back, hating himself, wondering what he could have done differently, how he could have prevented Castiel from opening a door to Purgatory in the first place. Castiel is always, always on his mind - not as a pleasure, any more than Dean is always a pleasure to himself - but as his own being. 

And Castiel is bleeding with the pain of it. If he’d known about this before - if Dean had _told_ him any of this before - but now they are here, in a land of monsters and horror, and they are not getting out. Castiel is dead set on it. He’s done too much, sinned too much, to be allowed to leave this place. And he can’t join Dean. It would put him into too much danger. 

It is what it is.

It is too late.

_Dean will never know I love him_ , Castiel thinks, looking up at the grey sky. _And that, not because he's undeserving, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same._

As if in answer to this thought, Dean begins his nightly prayer.

_Cas_ , he says, and then his voice breaks. Castiel can hear the rest of it well enough, though. Dean is thinking about the Apocalypse. About that night in an abandoned house. About how wide and blue Castiel’s eyes had been as Dean had loomed down over him, had taken up all his personal space and refused to give it back.

_You’re not going to die a virgin, not on my watch_ , Dean had said that night, and now he’s wishing he’d done things differently - alone in endless, pointless torment, he’s recreating the past between them for comfort and peace; he’s imagining himself leaning down a bit closer; carding his fingers through Castiel’s hair.

Dean is touching himself, and Castiel doesn’t know what to do. He wishes he could step away from Dean’s mind, because this is a personal, intimate act, and yet they have been together so long, Castiel can’t quite manage it. His mouth a bit dry, he stops by the river, washes his face with cold water. And still, the fantasy continues inside his head, crafted in precise, loving details. Dean knows what Castiel’s trenchcoat would feel like under his fingers; he knows how many buttons Castiel’s shirt has. He is, of course, unaware of this, but he is in fact reliving that single evening in Munich; he’s touching Castiel just like Dietmar had done, his hands first gentle, then demanding, determined to get a reaction out of the strange creature in front of him; out of this thing which was not human, and couldn’t love, and had, perhaps, no interest in trying.

Castiel falls back under the weight of Dean’s desire, because he does remember that evening as well - he remembers both of them. How he’d wished and feared Dean would step closer to him in that derelict house, and how he’d feared and wished Dietmar would still his hands in that inn room in the heart of Munich. Castiel remembers the occasional song playing outside the window as Dietmar had kissed him and licked his way along his jaw, down his neck, his collarbones. He can still see Dietmar’s sleepy, childlike joy when a lone firefly had wandered in, hovering by the disheveled bed in unhappy confusion.

Dean’s attempt to escape the darkness around him is a hurried, bittersweet affair. The second it’s over, Castiel feels him adjust his clothes and then focus back on the real life around him - he feels Dean hoping Benny hasn’t heard anything from where he’s keeping watch; feels him wishing he could trust the vampire enough to try and sleep, even though he doesn’t need to, not really; feels him wishing, more than anything, that he could find Castiel, that he could make sure, quite sure, Castiel is safe, before slowly giving in to dreams and nightmares.

The bond between them has not been broken, not even here; and Castiel, despite his better judgement, gets distracted and hopeful and careless. He remains by the river, and Dean finds him.

# α|ω

“I need you,” Dean says, and Castiel sees the real words underneath, is seized, again, by longing and panic.

He had hoped, once, that it might come to this, but he now knows he’s not good enough. He is disgraced and Fallen, and he will never be able to feel as deeply about Dean as Dean feels about him.

It wouldn’t be right to trick Dean, not again. Dean deserves better.

When the passage opens, Castiel pushes Dean through it, and then turns around and screams in pain and loss, and his rage flattens all the trees around him.

Free will, it seems, is just a length of rope, and if God has allowed Castiel to claim it is just so he could hang himself with it.

# α|ω

When he first realizes he’s walking the Earth again, Castiel assumes at first the world has been remade once more. He glances up at the trees surrounding him, mistrusting their bright colours and sharp smell of resin and dirt. 

It _is_ the real world, though. The usual one. Everything seems to be as ordinary and sharp as it always was, inside and out: the quiet salamanders hiding in the leaves, the colourful toadstools pushing their heads up towards sun and rain; and also Castiel’s past, Castiel’s mistakes, Castiel’s constant, unerring love for Dean.

And it is Dean’s longing which guides him forward - his steps stumble and falter, but it’s worth it, all of it, just to be near Dean again. To see him safe and whole. To feel Dean’s soul press up against his Grace from the other end of a motel room, and not over a distance of darkness and monsters.

In fact, Castiel is so relieved by the fact he’s himself again that he doesn’t notice, at first, that he’s losing time. Sometimes Dean will mention, casually, that he’s prayed to him and he hasn’t answered, and Castiel finds he has no memory of those prayers, which goes beyond ‘not normal’. It is unprecedented, and very worrisome.

There is too much to do, though, to investigate the issue. Castiel knows both brothers are wondering how he escaped from Purgatory, and that troubles him, too, but he pushes the problem aside. Someone resurrected him twice before; possibly more times beside that. Castiel’s sole focus, now, is to make sure Dean will remain untouched by the momentous events going on around him - by the angels’ wishes for revenge; by Crowley’s oblique scheming.

When he walks into the pleasant, white house and finds Dean much too close to death, yet again, Castiel’s worries deepen. _He’s definitely off_ , Sam has said about him, and when he finds himself staring down at the demon’s body, Castiel has to agree with him.

Something is happening. Something bad.

“He lied to us,” Dean says, from one floor below, and Castiel frowns, hopes they will figure it out, because he doesn’t - he can’t - every time he pushes against his most recent memories, something pushes right back. 

“Yeah, maybe. I can kind of understand why. I mean, an Angel Tablet?”

But that is not it, Castiel thinks. He would trust Dean with his own life. He has trusted Dean with his own life. He turns back to the demon, inspects the cuts on her arms.

“Why are you so sweet on me, Clarence?” she asks, and Castiel frowns.

“I don't know.”

He doesn’t remember why he allowed her to survive. She’s not - she seems capable of doing the right thing, but Castiel can see her true face, smell the stench of embers and sulphur coming from her, and is not fooled. Like Crowley, she was allowed to live for a reason, and it irks him that he doesn’t know what that reason was.

“Would it _kill_ you to watch a movie, read a book?” she insists, and drinks from the bottle she’s cradling in her uninjured hand. 

Castiel continues to tend her wounds and doesn’t look up.

“A movie, no. But a book with the proper spells - yeah, it could, theoretically, kill me.”

“You know, you're much cuter when you're shutting up.”

A sudden memory pierces him then - this demon, Meg, leaning over him, moving a hand over his face. _It’s not real_ , she’d said, over and over again, as Castiel struggled against Lucifer’s words.

“I'm just me,” he replies, a bit dryly, and she smiles.

“So, your noodle's back in order?”

“Yeah, my - noodle remembers everything. I think it's a pretty good noodle.”

“Really? You remember _everything_?”

It is a direct, loaded question. Castiel can sense that Meg, like himself, has strayed from her path. She doesn’t have a true purpose, not anymore, and she’s done her best to be fair towards him. He nods.

“If you're referring to the pizza man - yes, I remember the pizza man. And it's a good memory.”

It is a good memory, especially now, because now he finally understands the confusing half thoughts which had come from Dean - he remembers it, all of it - remembers kissing Meg, remembers his brain flooding with these soft, uncertain, unspoken words (not his; Dean’s). He knows now that was jealousy, and he’s selfish enough that the thought pleases him.

And then he looks down, and all of a sudden there is another memory under his eyelids. A woman putting a blade in his hand; a woman pointing at Dean.

“Kill him,” the woman says, and Castiel does.

“You ever miss the Apocalypse?” Meg asks, and Castiel blinks back inside his own reality.

“No. Why would I miss the end of times?”

Meg answers something he doesn’t quite catch, because here it is again - this time Dean is smiling at him, opening his arms as though coming in for a hug, and again, the woman’s voice comes from behind him ( _Kill him_ ), and, again, Castiel does.

“- we're gonna move some furniture around. You understand?”

Castiel stares at her, unhappy and bewildered.

“No, I -” but this is the wrong answer, apparently, because Meg purses her lips, looks at him over her bottle of scotch. “Wait, I - yes,” he amends, and when Dean comes in, Castiel is overwhelmed by guilt.

He shakes his head, sees a room - a vast, white room - filled with corpses.

_Angels_ , he thinks. His brothers are the only ones who would have the power to mess with his brain, and he would recognize those impersonal spaces everywhere. It suddenly feels urgent to wait, to figure this out, but, once again, there is no time.

# α|ω

_If the demons get their hands on the Angel Tablet, they'll kill us all. They'll destroy Heaven_ , says the woman’s voice in his head, and Castiel pushes back against it.

He focuses back on Dean again, lowers his eyes to the tablet in his hands.

“I can't let you take that, Dean,” he says, quietly.

“Can't or won't?” asks Dean, and he sounds almost curious, like he’s trying to figure something out.

Castiel frowns.

“Both.”

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“How did you get out of Purgatory, Cas?” Dean asks, and it happens - that voice was not just a voice - Naomi, a Virtue of the highest circle, explodes inside Castiel’s head, burdened with white light and justice.

“Kill him,” she says, and Castiel looks at her in complete panic.

“There has to be another way.”

“You have done this a _thousand_ times, Castiel. You're _ready_. Kill him,” she insists, her voice stern, and Castiel suddenly remembers it - remembers everything.

He _did_ kill Dean. Not a thousand times - Naomi is exaggerating. He killed Dean exactly one hundred and ninety-nine times. One death for every life they have spent together. Sometimes Dean has fought back, even attacked him first, but most of the time, Dean had been - just Dean. Open and friendly and happy to see him.

Castiel sways slightly as he steps inside that room again - as he feels Dean’s blood on his fingers, hears Dean’s last breath against his neck, over and over again. 

And there is another Dean in front of him right now. He’s scruffier and dirtier and tired and only half-friendly.

“Just tell me how you got out of Purgatory. Be honest with me - for the first time since you've been back,” he says, and Castiel unsheathes his blade. 

This is the last life they’ll have together. The last time Castiel will have to kill Dean.

The thought is sweet as honey; perhaps too sweet. Castiel tries to step back from the sicklyness of it, and he realizes, to his horror, that he’s stepped forward instead - he hears Dean’s voice from very far away, and Dean is very close to panicking now ( _Cas - Cas, I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but if you're in there and you can hear me, you don't have to do this - Cas - Cas!_ ). 

Castiel stares in confusion at the Dean in front of him - who has an unnatural, frozen smile on his lips, and is standing completely still - and then looks down at his right hand, finds it red and shiny with blood.

He blinks, and the room around him disappears. He’s back in the crypt, and the real Dean is stumbling back, away from him. He still has the Angel Tablet in his hands, and he looks - he _looks_ -

“This isn’t right,” says Castiel, and this time when he walks back into Heaven he isn’t standing in a room of corpses.

Naomi is waiting for him, and the weight of her presence is heavy and angry.

“Do you realize what that tablet can do for us? For _Heaven_?” she asks.

Castiel can smell fire - that particular smell of green wood trying its best to burn, that fire you build if you’re desperate to keep someone warm. He looks down. The polished concrete floor is gone. Under his shoes is a luxurious carpet in shades of grey and red, now a bit faded from use. He looks up again, mystified, and sees a young boy walk up to him. Dan is small and lean for his age, and his smile is still a child’s smile. When Castiel looks into his face, though, he sees Dean’s green eyes look back at him.

_I am yours_ , adonai, Dan says, and the room around them dissolves.

“I won’t hurt Dean,” says Castiel, his fingers loosening one the hilt of his blade.

“Yes, you will. ” Naomi replies, and, just for a second, there is a hint of malicious satisfaction there. “You are.”

Castiel takes a step forward, lowers his weapon over Dean’s head. Dean parries the blow, only just, and Castiel stumbles, raises his hands to his head, tries to force this out - whatever this is - 

“Cas, _fight_ this! This is _not_ you! _Fight it_!”

Dean’s voice is far away, out of tune. Castiel turns around and strikes him again.

“What have you _done_ to me?” he rasps, barely managing to stand up straight.

Naomi looks back at him.

“Just relax, Castiel. Let your vessel do what you know deep down is the right thing.”

The right thing - Castiel breathes in sharply, and now he’s walking on a battlefield - the noise is chaotic, unbearable - hundreds of men are shouting and dying - there is the powerful shock of chariots running into each other, a noise as loud as thunder - horses neighing in desperation - as Castiel walks forward, his feet get caught in the red mud covering every inch of what was once a joyful, happy space - he can still see the colourful stalls of the market which used to be held here, watches in shock as the bright green of a basket of spinach melts into the faded bronze of a greave blinking up from a puddle of blood. 

“What have you _done_ to me, Naomi?” he calls out, and then he sees it - the young Trojan prince falling from the walls, flying through the air, an arrow in his side.

Castiel can only watch, in horrified fascination, as Doryclus lands on his back, hard, and cries out. He runs to him, then, looks down at the boy’s pretty, delicate figure, now marred with red.

“Who is Naomi?” Doryclus whispers, and Castiel wakes up to Naomi’s fury.

“What have I _done_ to you?! Do you have any _idea_ what it's like out there? There's blood everywhere, and it's on _your_ hands. After everything you did - to us, to Heaven - I _fixed_ you, Castiel. _I_ fixed you!”

Castiel shakes his head, steps back. He never meant - he didn’t - all he wanted was to do the right thing. As he stumbles back another step, he looks down again, sees Doryclus staring up at him, his eyes wide and unseeing. Slowly, his boyish body stretches and changes, and now he’s Dean, looking all wrong in a Trojan armour, looking - and then everything Castiel ever was seems to shuffle around him, up and down and sideways, and he shakes his head, trying to clear it -

But now Dean is front of him again, and this time he leaps forward, tries to attack him, and Castiel reacts on instinct. He grabs Dean’s arm and twists it until he feels the bones broke, until he hears Dean’s tortured scream.

The stone which sealed the Angel Tablet falls to the ground and splits open, and thunder crashes down on the both of them.

Castiel shifts his eyes to the Tablet, but he’s not really seeing it. The holy stone is everything and nothing, because the room around him won’t stop spinning - it’s Naomi’s efficient, squared up room, and it’s Dan’s tent, and it’s Dean’s foolish, beloved black car, its seats and doors put back together more times than even he can count -

“You want it?” yells Dean, and, this time, his voice is way too near - it explodes against Castiel’s ears like a cannon shot. “Take it! But you're gonna have to kill me first. Come on, you coward. Do it. _Do it_!”

Castiel’s hand falls, again and again. He’s still clenching the blade between his fingers, and he’s managing, only just, with that one shred of self-control this thing will allow him, to hit Dean with the hilt instead of stabbing him outright.

“ _Please_ ,” he says, sick and mad with grief and completely undone, but Naomi shakes her head.

“ _End_ this, Castiel.”

Castiel hits Dean again, and instead of defending himself, Dean takes his left hand and laces their fingers together.

“Cas - this isn't you. This isn't _you_ ,” he forces out, his words heavy with blood, and Castiel looks up at Naomi in desperation.

“Bring - me - the - Tablet,” she hisses, and Castiel brings his hand down against Dean’s face one more time, hears the sickening noise of Dean’s skull cracking under his knuckles.

“Cas - _Cas_. I know you're in there,” Dean says, and now his voice his heavy, very close to fading away completely. “I know you can hear me. Cas, it's _me_.”

Castiel pauses. Dean’s words echo inside his head. Unwelcome and unbidden, the memories of Dean’s one hundred and ninety-nine deaths swim in front of his eyes - Castiel watches in horror as the boy grows into a man, and his body is forced, broken and bent, at the bottom of a steep ravine, and on the slippery deck of a ship; as it’s stabbed up against a huge wooden crucifix, and hacked to pieces by a Scythian axe.

_It’s_ me, Dean says, again and again, looking up at him as he dies, and Castiel feels the beginning of something else from deep within himself - something different from the mindless, heartless compulsion which has been guiding his steps for the last months, which has led him into his crypt, to destroy the man he -

“We're family,” Dean mouths, through the gore and the blood. “We need you. _I need you_.”

And this does it. Cas remembers the words from Purgatory. He knows what they really mean. He could read it on Dean’s face then, and he can do so now, even if Dean’s face is a ruined mess, because even after Cas has very nearly killed him, Dean means it. Dean loves him. Cas can see the faint pink light emanating from him as Dean focuses on the feeling, desperate to make him understand, to save him, perhaps, even from himself.

“You have to choose, Castiel - us or them,” says Naomi, but Cas is no longer Castiel. 

He hasn’t been Castiel for a long time - he can see that now, brightly and clearly. He was stripped of this identity he was created for, in fact, the very very time he talked to Dean - he’d begun to doubt and step away from himself the second the young prince had raised his hand up and touched him.

Doubt. Emotions. _Love._

Cas lets his blade clatter to the floor.

When he picks up the Angel Tablet, the voices of the Host inside his mind go silent.

He is free.

He raises his hand to Dean’s face, and shame blows up inside his chest when he sees Dean flinch back, bring his own arm up to protect himself.

“Cas,” he breathes, and Cas ignores him, and instead of blessing him like he usually does when he heals him, he reaches out, strokes his cheek, quietly and lovingly, absorbing all of his pain deep within himself, accepting it as penance.

“I am so sorry, Dean.”

Dean looks up at him in agonized confusion.

“What the hell just happened?” he asks, standing up slowly, and Cas tries to explain, stumbling over the words, trailing broken sentences behind him like blood from an open wound.

Once, he’d thought he could never tell the truth because he was under under orders not to do so; and later he’d understood he could not burden Dean with it. So when Dean frowns up at him and looks like he wants - something - and licks his lips instead - asks the question -

(“What broke the connection?”)

\- Cas forces himself to lie.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he has to lower his head, because he cannot lie convincingly, not to Dean, not about this; he’s afraid his love for Dean will shine out of him like wounded Grace, and force Dean to choose him.

And Cas knows Dean would never be happy with him. Not with someone who cannot feel, who has nothing to give in return.

“I just know that I have to protect this Tablet now,” he forces himself to say, and then he adds something, anything, just an excuse which will allow him to get out of this room, because Dean is looking at him that way again - as if he’s about to say something he can’t take back, and Cas can’t allow him to - can’t -

_Goodbye, Mary, goodbye, Jane_ , says the sudden music around him as he turns and looks at the golden fields whispering outside the window. _Will we ever meet again?_

# α|ω

There is only one way out, from all of it. They’re going to shut both of them down - Heaven and Hell. The angels are out of control, after all - they’re not any better than demons, and they certainly do not have humanity’s best interests at heart.

The irony is, of course, that Cas stole the idea from Dean, and he knows Dean won’t like it. He’s trying to seal Hell, sure, and he hasn’t yet realized it will cost him his brother’s life. But he will know at once, as soon as Cas mentions it, that sealing Heaven as well will result in Cas being shut inside. Away from Earth.

Cas doesn’t like it either, but he knows his discomfort (grief) will be but temporary. He will likely be found and hacked to pieces long before he could even begin to imagine a life without Dean, and the thought is not unpleasant, because he doesn’t _want_ to imagine a life without Dean.

Still, Dean does what he’s asked to. Maybe he thinks Cas doesn’t care, one way or the other. Or maybe he’s convincing himself he’s the one who doesn’t care; the one who only wants it over.

“Start the injections now,” Dean says, glancing back at Sam. “If I'm not back in eight hours, finish it, no questions, no hesitation.”

“Yeah,” says Sam, a bit uneasy, and he and Cas look at each other as Dean leans down to close the trunk of the car. 

There is an unspoken goodbye, there, because Sam knows, and he’s okay with it. He expects to be dead long before Dean comes back, and there is a sort of gratitude in his gaze as he nods at Cas.

_I know what we are, you and I_ , his eyes seem to say. _We began this path as enemies, and I am happy we can end it as friends._

Cas nods back, his heart heavy inside his chest, and his hand rests on Dean’s shoulder a bit too long as he vanishes them both.

# α|ω

“Free drinks,” Dean announces, in the voice of someone glad something is finally going his way for once. “Your - your _buddy_ over there thinks you saved his life.”

“Do you really think it's wise to be drinking on the job?”

It is a belated, feeble attempt at humour. He’s already ordered two more beers, after all. Dean just stares at him.

“What show have you been watching?”

Cas just smiles, a bit sadly. This, he thinks, is just something else Dean will never get to know about him. He’s not exceedingly good at sarcasm, that’s true, but he does manage it now and again, and Dean doesn’t understand it, not always - but Dietmar got it, Cas thinks. He’d understood him perfectly, and he’d flirted right back. Which means there is no reason for Dean not to learn how to see through him as well.

All he lacks is the time to do so. 

Time he will never have.

“Talk to me,” says Dean (has he picked up on Cas’ train of thought? or maybe his moods are less guarded than they once were). “Are you sure about this? I mean, it's one thing me and Sammy slamming the gates to the pit, but you - you're - you're boarding up _Heaven_ , and you're locking the door behind you.”

He glances at Cas, but Cas finds he’s distracted by the colour in Dean’s words. The no-nonsense blue of his strategic thinking is slowly curling up at the corners, turning faintly purple (doubt; regret; loss) then pink (longing; affection; love).

“Yeah. I know,” says Cas, and he takes a sip of beer.

It tastes different now. It used to be just primary elements bound to one another, the same song again and again with only slight variations here and there, but now it’s something else - now this beer tastes like the secret hope and effort of the hop seeds; it is as warm as the sun which raised them up, as loving as the hands that cut them down. It’s just a beer, and it’s not even Dean’s favourite, but it speaks so strong about love and life and the Earth itself that Cas wishes he could weep over it.

But that is not done, he knows as much. Not after one beer, anyway.

Dean is still looking at him. Cas can feel his gaze without looking, can perceive, most of all, the weight of Dean’s soul against him (worried; sad).

“You did a lot of damage up there, man. You think they're just gonna let that slide?”

Cas considers, and discards, the possibility of lying to him.

“Do you mean do I think they'll kill me?” he says. “Yeah, they might.”

_They will_ , he adds, inside his own mind, and he turns his head to his left, allows himself the pleasure to look into Dean’s green eyes; to count his freckles, to bask in the warmth of his presence.

It is the last time, after all, that they’ll be together like this. It is a rare luxury to be alone with Dean and to savour the moment. Neither of them is dying, not right now (Cas _will_ , of course, and soon enough, but that is not important; and without the infestation that is Hell, he’s hoping Dean will manage to take care of himself even after Sam is gone). Cas knows Dean can’t read him, not as clearly as Cas can read _him_. So, he smiles, just a little, allows his Grace to expand inside the small room, hoping Dean will perceive a trace of it - will feel a hint of Cas’ stunted love for him.

Dean smiles back, but it is a sad, forced out thing.

“So this is it,” he says. “E.T. goes home.”

_God, stay_ , he adds, and, for a second, Cas is convinced Dean has spoken the plea out loud, but Dean hasn’t. Of course not. Cas has been wandering inside his thoughts again. He steps back, confused by the strength and desperation of Dean’s thought, and Dean rolls his eyes at him.

He was probably expecting something - anything - but Cas doesn’t have any words for him. They all seem way too dangerous right now.

And it looks like he won’t need to find words, after all. Dean will remain with Sam, as he was always destined to do - Cas shuts him out, never hears his distant, agonized _Cas_ when Dean realizes he’s gone - and Cas will -

There is a flash of white light, and then nothing.

# α|ω

“It was true,” says Metatron’s voice above him. “All of it. Hadn’t you been blinded by hatred and resentment, you could have heard the sincerity in her voice. You could have heard her _dying_ ,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“Why?” rasps Cas, and he opens his eyes.

He’s lying down; he’s been forced down by magical sigils upon a narrow bed. All around him is one of those same non-descript room he’s seen hundreds of times before (Balthazar used to complain about them, about the predictability of them, and the unexpected thought makes his mouth even dryer) and if he glances to his right he can see, only barely, a tray of surgical instruments grimy with blood.

“You know _why_. You hate them as well. You will not mourn their Fall, surely?” says Metatron, and if he’s trying for concern, he falls a mile short.

He raises Cas’ own blade towards his face, and Cas shakes his head. 

“No,” he forces out. “Please.”

He's not thinking about his own life, which has long been forfeited; he’s thinking about Heaven; about his brothers.

Metatron misunderstands him.

“I am sorry. I _truly_ am. I didn't want it to be you. I rather _like_ you, little brother,” he says, lowering the blade to Cas’ neck, caressing his skin. “But it _had_ to be you, don't you see? Think about it.”

Cas takes a deep breath. There must be a way to reason his way out of here to trick Metatron - to somehow overpower him, he thinks; and then Metatron’s words hit him like a brick, and he blinks.

“The Nephilim,” he says, slowly. “Cupid's bow.”

“Why, yes. _Love_. Love is at the heart of it all, and you, Castiel, are as well. The one and only angel who can _love_. A fascinating abomination.”

For a moment, they stare at each other, and then Metatron smiles again, and this time the venom is much closer to the surface.

“Not that you _truly_ can, of course. Not really. Whatever love you think you feel is but a pale imitation compared to human love.”

He pauses then, as though his words would cause Cas unbearable pain, but Cas doesn’t react. He knows this already. It has been his burden for centuries. He’s made his peace with it, and tonight he’d been ready to finally pay the price for this mistake of his - his presumption he could ever walk the Earth unscathed, and love a man the way his Father had loved him.

Hubris and foolishness, all of it.

“But I am feeling generous, and I will give you the opportunity to see that for yourself,” adds Metatron, and, if anything, he seems even more dangerous after Cas’ silence.

“What do you mean?”

“I am giving you a gift, Castiel. I decided to spare your life. Your _Grace_ , after all, is all I need for the spell to work.”

He says this like it's nothing; like Cas’ Grace isn't everything he is, his essence and his soul. Like Cas knows how to be anything without it.

“I will give you the gift of humanity, brother,” says Metatron, and Cas’ eyes widen in sudden panic.

“No,” he whispers. “ _No_.”

Metatron pulls back, only just. The tip of the blade he’s grasping skims over Cas’ skin without breaking it.

“Why, you disappoint me. I thought you'd be happy. Don't you _love_ humanity?”

Cas remains silent. He is dazed and undone - still trying to comprehend the enormity of the threat. An angel without his Grace – that has never happened before. Even Michael hadn’t dared strip Lucifer of his Grace when he’d forced him into the deep.

For without their Grace, angels would be cut off from their brothers' companionship; from the warmth of their Father's love. They would share what is a demon’s curse.

This is _sheqet_ \- this cannot be.

“Or perhaps,” Metatron adds, when it becomes clear Cas will not speak, “you do not love _humanity_. You love _one_ human. You love Dean Winchester.”

He sighs.

“I like a good story as much as anyone, Castiel,” he says, quietly, earnestly, “but let me give you some advice: forget him.”

With a great effort, Cas moves his eyes back to Metatron's and frowns at him.

“Listen, I know you've shared a long - well: a _sizeable_ \- portion of your life with the man, and I feel you've developed some foolish notion about his affection for you. But you never understood how truly beautiful writing works. In this story of ours, Dean Winchester is the Antihero; the Lovable Rogue and the Berserker. He doesn't love anyone or anything, Castiel. He is broken and messed-up and still desperate for a dead man's approval. That makes for a rather toxic mix.”

Cas had walked away from that church fully expecting he would die, but now he starts to fight back, because there is no _way_ \- because he will not allow this - this _creature_ to sink his hooks into Dean. He will _not_.

“Stop,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Don't - you don't know _anything_ about Dean.”

Metatron' smiles grows wider.

“Oh, but I do. He thinks he loves his brother,” he confides, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “But the truth is, his brother is the only thing that stands between him and complete annihilation, and he knows it. Without Sam, Dean would have to face himself fully and completely - face the fact that he has no family, no friends; face that his life has been but a long series of bad mistakes. Face that even his _brother_ distrusted him and disliked him.”

“That's not true,” says Cas, but Metatron drones on.

“And, sure, Dean may have the impression that you _matter_. The angel who rebelled for him. How grand. How _romantic_.”

He stops talking and Cas just wills him to stop there, to -

“But the truth is, you are but a crutch for his own insecurities. Your presence gives him the illusion that he himself does matter -”

“He does, he is -” 

_Everything_ , Cas is about to say, but Metatron just speaks louder, cut his sentence in half just as easily as he can cut into his skin and soul.

“- and through you, he has access to strength and power. You are _nothing_ to him, Castiel. He likes you because he's _weak_. The second you cease to be useful, he will push you away.”

“No,” whispers Cas, but Metatron has been clever, as always; his words have found their target. They have nested inside Cas’ doubts, his ignorance of human feelings, and they will not be easily banished.

“Why don’t we decide this, right now? Why don’t we hear it from the mouth of the Righteous Man himself?” asks the scribe, his eyes glinting with malice.

Before Cas can even understand what is going on, the protections around the room have been lowered, and Cas feels Dean’s soul again, warm and comfortable around him. He closes his eyes, breathes it in, and as he does so, he hears Sam’s voice echoing through the darkness. 

“You want to know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I let you down. I can't do that again.”

“Sam -”

Dean sounds broken, terrified; and then Sam, one of the strongest men Cas has ever met, starts to cry.

“What happens when you've decided I can't be trusted again? I mean, who are you gonna turn to next time instead of me? Another angel, another - another _vampire_? Do you have any _idea_ what it feels like to watch your brother just -”

Cas can feel Dean’s pain deep inside him. He welcomes it, hoping to take it away from Dean, and yet he knows it doesn’t work like that, not when they are thousands of miles apart.

“Hold on, hold on! You seriously think that? Because _none_ of it - _none of it_ \- is true. Listen, man, I know we've had our disagreements, okay? Hell, I know I've said some junk that set you back on your heels. But, Sammy - come on. I killed Benny to save _you_. I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of _you_.”

“Wait, now comes the good part,” says Metatron’s voice, somewhere above him, but Cas is too distracted by the raw desperation inside Dean’s soul to take any notice of it. 

“Don't you _dare_ think that there is _anything_ , past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has _never_ been like that, _ever_! I need you to see that. I'm _begging_ you.”

And then, just like a light being switched, the connection is closed, and Cas gasps from the loss of it, as if forced underwater.

“I told you,” says Metatron, and Cas doesn’t hear him - Dean’s last words are bouncing around inside his mind, and they are, despite what Metatron so clearly thinks, a comfort - because if Sam will live - if Dean is willing to love Sam again, as unconditionally as he had before - then it means Dean will be alright, and Cas doesn’t care about anything else. 

All he wants is for Dean to be happy. He’s been walking with him for three thousands years: he knows perfectly well his brother will always come first, and he loves Dean even more for this - for his stubborn devotion, for his loyalty, for his self-sacrifice. 

There’s nothing else he needs in his life but Dean’s joy, and Sam can do that - he can make Dean happy. He does make Dean happy. 

“As I said, spare yourself this pain, brother,” adds Metatron, moving closer to him, pushing the blade into his neck until Cas can feel his skin break. “Live this new life to the fullest. Find a wife. Make babies. And when you die and your soul comes to Heaven, find me. Tell me your story.”

“No - wait - _stop_ -”

With a surprisingly swift and graceful gesture, Metatron moves the blade over Cas’ throat, and cuts his Grace out of his body.

Cas screams in agony, in pain and loss, and then Falls, long and hard; he lands in a forest clearing, and as he lies there, aching all over, choking and dying, his eyes fixed on the dark sky and blurred with tears, it suddenly happens - his thoughts turn to Dean, an almost unconscious reaction, and when he sees Dean's face in his mind – Dean's half-smile, Dean's bright green eyes - Cas feels love flood through him, and Metatron was right - this is _nothing_ he ever felt before - this is _powerful_ and _dangerous_ and _overwhelming_. This is the best and the worst thing in the world. It’s so strong it prevents him from moving, because it stops his heart and lungs, it paralyzes him with terror and worry; and yet it also makes his blood sing, it colours the whole world around him, it makes him want to shout and cry in raw, unfiltered exhilaration.

It is joy the likes of which Cas has never experienced before, and it is heartwrenching, and -

And this is how Cas knows that Metatron’s spell has worked. This is how he knows he’s human, and this is how he knows he will survive it. For he’s always wondered how humans can bear it, but now he finally understands it: the deeper sorrow will carve into his being, the more joy he will contain.

Moved to tears by the strength of it, Cas turns to his memories and discovers they are still there - discovers they are, in fact, even stronger and more vivid than before. He remembers what he told a young man stricken with grief, and he finally understands the truth of his own words. For love gives nothing but itself and takes nothing but from itself - for love is sufficient unto love. 

And even when he starts walking, even when he looks up at the dark sky and sees his brothers and sisters Falling, banished from Heaven and forced to wander the Earth forever, Cas cannot allow any real sadness inside his heart. He is human now, and he can love. After so many centuries, he will finally let his love for Dean devour him and consume him; and that is all that matters.


	6. 2013, Fall

It’s not long before Cas starts to understand another truth of humanity: that love is not the only emotion that can overwhelm him and defeat him.

As he walks through the dark forest, his thoughts turn to his brothers’ fate, and he is left aghast by the strong, bitter taste in his mouth. Tentatively, he recognizes it as sadness and guilt. He has observed both of them many times; he’s even thought, in his most foolhardy moments, to have felt them within himself, and now he must concede he was wrong.

Because this, right here, is the real thing, and it is crippling. Cas can barely move under the weight of it. Humanity, it seems, affords him not only a greater capacity to feel, but a deeper understanding of what, exactly, other people may be feeling.

Several times, Cas has to stop and lean against a tree trunk as he tries to chase the images from his mind - as he tries to shut down every _what if_ and every _if only_.

He doesn’t manage to, not fully.

The forest is pitch black around him, and Cas must soon admit to himself he’s blind here. He’d started to go West, because he still has perfect knowledge of most things, and he knows where the roads are. Soon, though, his unerring skills start to fade, and Cas is no longer sure he’s going in the right direction. Also, he has severely underestimated how far he’ll be able to walk. Twenty miles hadn’t seemed an insurmountable hurdle, but Cas hadn’t anticipated all of this - how difficult it is to walk in the dark, over uneven ground, without food or water or any certainty the chosen path is the right one.

And slowly, mile by mile, Cas discovers other human emotions. He starts to be tired, and the more tired he is, the more vulnerable to everything else - his sadness and his guilt are soon joined by hopelessness and anger and doubt, and Cas can’t keep them out.

Breathing hard, he stops where he is and looks up at the sky again.

_Dean_ , he thinks. All he needs to do is find Dean.

_How do you know he’s even alive?_ asks a treacherous voice in his head, and Cas punches the nearest tree, hard, to keep it out.

He’s seen Dean do the same thing many times, and he’d never realized it hurt.

He looks down at his hand in wonder.

_Blood_.

It’s too dark to see the shiny red colour of it, but it’s blood. _Human_ blood. Cas brings his knuckles to his mouth and tastes it. Iron and copper and nothing else. As an angel, he’d been able to tell so much from someone’s blood - diseases and memories and secret hopes. But now, blood is just blood, and the dull ache of it is one more proof everything is gone and destroyed; that one day, Cas will grow old and die.

“No,” he says out loud, just to test the word; and then he thinks about Dean again, he conjures Dean’s face in his mind - how Dean tilts his head when he’s truly smiling, how a light summer tan will make his freckles stand out and shine.

And then Cas starts walking again.

As an angel, faith was everything he was, a duty and a comfort; surely now he can find enough of it within himself to survive until Dean can find him again?

# α|ω

“Sam. He's, um - they say he's dying.”

Dean’s voice is almost unrecognizable. Cas hangs on to it for dear life, but it’s no good - it dims and slips between his fingers, because how can Dean be like this? How can he care so much for his brother, and not recognize that Cas needs to look out for his own brothers? Why is Dean telling him to run and hide?

He is not a child. He will _not_ be helpless. Everything that’s going on - that’s on _him_. And he will fix it, even if it kills him to do so.

Because this is what Dean would do.

Cas doesn’t know how to be human. He’s learned the little he knows by watching Dean, and he knows perfectly well that there are so many things Dean does he could never do himself - Dean steals and lies and gambles and sleeps around and yet he’s always, inevitably good. Cas doesn’t know how he manages it. The first time he considers stealing a bottle of water, something lights up inside his chest, a warm ball of messy feelings which take a long time to resolve themselves into plain shame.

But Dean wants Cas to go the Bunker -

( _There's a war on, and it's on you_.)

\- and this is what Cas will try to do. It was always, everything, for Dean. He will not let him down now, especially if he has a chance to help Sam as well.

He’s not surprised Sam is dying. If anything, he’s surprised Sam survived. Even if they stopped the Trials, so much had already happened - Sam has stepped so deep into the Darkness - it’s a miracle, really, that Dean managed to pull him back.

Not that Dean will ever recognize this, because he has an irritating, heartwrenching tendency to ignore the good omens and things going well and focus instead on everything else.

And now he’s human, Cas understands what that feels like, because the truth is, he’s being pushed into more and more choices he never wanted to make. Killing Hael was - he can still smell her blood on himself.

There was a time he hadn’t known killing was wrong. Angels are created to follow orders, and this is what they do. It is by watching the senseless wars on Earth - by wandering through the battlefield, by listening to the wails of the widows - that Cas had begun to consider himself to be at fault. He’d thought he’d known everything; he hadn’t. Men were often forced into killing each other, and yet they never did it lightly. Every kill leaves a scar, a kind of sadness that Cas could see well enough even after it had long faded in the killer’s memory. 

Even worse: humans are granted peace after death, but the murder of an immortal creature - that’s sacrilege. That’s the universe losing a piece of itself.

Cas is very nearly ruined by Hael’s murder, and he wants to pray, because this is the only answer he knows, but the words won’t come out. He tries to rationalize it - it’s too dangerous, after all, to utter a prayer when he knows perfectly well his brothers are listening - when he knows his brothers want to _kill_ him - but the truth of it is, he’s no longer sure about the point of it all. Why pray if God won’t make His presence known? If He won’t help, now that Cas needs His love like never before?

And then, things get worse. Because one day, Cas realizes that his memories are fading.

He’s just left the homeless centre and is walking down the road, heading for the bus station, when he hears a group of teenagers talking behind him.

“What is this shit, Cathy?”

“I know, right? I mean, we’re not good enough to read it - no one is, not even little Miss Perfect - but Mr Harris doesn’t care.”

“What a dick.”

“Can’t you just Google it?” asks someone else, and the first girl scoffs.

“First thing I tried. But it’s not a famous poem - look at her name, have you even heard of her? - and it doesn’t come up anywhere. And if I don’t translate it by Monday, I’ll fail the class.”

Failing a class. Cas barely understands what this even means, but the girl sounds sad, and, without thinking, he turns around.

“Maybe I can help you,” he says, and he sees that there are, in fact, five teenage girls behind him, and now they’re all looking at him in bewilderment.

One of them takes in his appearance - the cheap pants, the old shirt - and actually laughs at him.

“You’re a French professor?” she says, derisively.

“I -” Cas hesitates, because he remembers speaking French with Damien - not that he ever consciously switched between one language and another, but he could taste them in his mouth all the same (Italian’s summery vowels; German’s slightly coppery consonants). “I have lived in France for a while.”

One of the girls looks down at the paper she’s holding, and then up at him again. She’s a mouse of a thing, short and slight, with carefully straightened hair.

“Come on, Cathy, let’s go.”

“But -”

“He looks like a hobo,” says a third girl, in a loud whisper. “We shouldn’t be talking to him.”

“I just want to help,” says Cas, and he stretches his hand out to the girl, palm up. “Please?”

Cathy hesitates, and then she gives him the paper. 

Cas takes it.

And, barely a second later, he realizes that he can’t, in fact, read it. He doesn’t even understand what language it’s written in. He starts reading the words, moving his mouth, as if conjuring them up by magic, but the meaning never comes.

With a hint of panic, Cas thinks about that evening in Paris, about how easy it had been to - to - and suddenly he can’t remember - was it summer or winter when he’d dragged Damien in that alley?

He doesn’t know.

Without even realizing what he’s doing, he brings the paper to his nose and tries to sniff the words out of it, because, surely, if he could just _smell_ them - language has meaning and sound, and French carries so much within itself - wide, sunny vineyards and the salty Atlantic and the ripe sweetness of Caribbean fruits -

But there is nothing here. It’s just paper.

Cas is so lost in it all, he only belatedly realizes the girls are now laughing at him, and giving him a wide berth as they walk past him.

“He’s probably on drugs,” one of them says, and Cas is left there, the useless paper still in his hands, and a sudden fear running through his veins - will he forget it, then? All of it? Not only history and languages and the exact knowledge of the world’s geography, but _all_ of it? The memory of his brothers’ existence, and the three thousand years he spent with Dean?

This can never be.

Anguished and confused, Cas stuffs the paper in his pocket and starts walking again.

Getting to Dean is now everything that matters. Dean will know how to fix it. He always does.

# α|ω

“You can’t stay.”

There is a whole eternity inside Dean’s words, and in that time, Cas finally understands the truth.

He is no one and nothing.

Among the very few angels blessed, or cursed, with the capacity to make their own decisions, Cas is the odd one out. He doesn’t have a strong sense of purpose, like Uriel; he doesn’t have Lucifer’s self-entitlement, and, most importantly, he doesn’t have Gabriel’s or Balthazar’s sharp wit. He is - he is the _worst_ of two worlds - he was given just enough free will to be a bad soldier, and not enough intelligence to be anything else.

Because, as he looks up at Dean’s face, Cas understands what any human child would have known at once - women do not invite strange men into their apartments: not men who are homeless and alone and quite possibly deranged; not men who are bleeding and babbling about a Higher Power. And they certainly don’t kiss these men, don’t - don’t make love to them -

(Her breasts so soft against his chest; her hair a mixture of sweet orange and vanilla; and the way she had stared down at him, as if he were the most important thing in her life, the most important thing in the world -)

\- Cas could have died, he _has_ , in fact, died, at April’s hand, because he is a fool and an idiot and after three thousand years on Earth he still doesn’t understand anything.

And Metatron was right.

Cas is not good enough, and Dean is kicking him out.

The bitter taste of betrayal sharpens and then fades inside his mouth, because Cas knows he has no claims to it. He has betrayed Dean first. He has never told Dean about the truth of it all. And he has made so many mistakes - he has so much blood on his hands - he was never good enough for Dean.

Realizing he’s been staring, Cas stands up, a bit awkwardly, and passes his eyes around the room instead. Sam is not here. Maybe he thinks there’s no point in saying goodbye.

“I understand,” he says, focusing on the bookcase right across him. “I’ll - I’ll go.”

“Cas -”

There are four leather-bound volumes Cas recognizes as the prophecies of Agnes Nutter; and, next to them, an orange book. Cas is too far away to read the title (he’s human now; he’s limited and broken) but he knows it belongs to the _Belles Lettres_ series. It’s Greek poetry; or some Roman chronicle, perhaps. With a pang of pain, he remembers sharing Domitius’ last meal - the young senator had liked shabby little taverns where he could always find old friends from the army - he’d come in, that night, laughing and happy, clapping a huge man on the shoulder, nearly upsetting his toss of dice; he’d stopped to chat with a young man with a scarred face, and then had asked for a bowl of stew before dropping down at Cas’ table.

Cas hadn’t even been surprised. They had never spoken before, but he’d been waiting for Domitius in that tavern, he’d known the young man would come there, and as soon as he’d crossed the threshold, Cas had seen him making a beeline towards himself - a movement seemingly so slow and random no one had noticed, least of all Domitius himself, but Cas has sensed it at once, and he’d smiled to himself.

And as soon as Domitius had sat down, his demeanour had changed. He’d been somber. Melancholic.

“It’s not working,” he’d said, passing his hands on his face.

Cas hadn’t said anything. There was nothing to be said. Domitius was right. It wasn’t working, it would never work, and, very soon, it would end in civil war.

“What do I do?” he’d asked, raising his eyes, and then something had shifted on his face, as though he’d suddenly realized he was talking to a complete stranger.

“You have a good heart,” Cas had said. “Follow it.”

“Cas, this is the last - the _last_ thing I want to do,” says Dean, and Cas is jolted back to the present, away from the young man, his body and his face blooming with scars - Domitius had tried to stage a revolution, to change the world, and he’d been brutally killed with hundreds of others.

It doesn’t do to dwell on the past.

“I understand,” says Cas again, even though he doesn’t.

“Do you?” says Dean, and there is such raw emotion in his voice that Cas finally turns to look at him.

_No, I don’t_ , he wants to say. _I gave up everything for you, and now I’m human, and I’m scared and alone and I have no one I can trust - no one except you. And you are telling me to go_.

But he will never say this to Dean. Could never bear to.

“You have a good heart,” he says instead. “I trust your judgement. I always have.”

This seems to make Dean even more wretched. He makes a sort of gesture, as though he wants to get closer to Cas, and then he stops, stuffs in hands deep in his pockets.

“Goodbye, then,” says Cas.

He starts to walk away, and after a few steps he hears Dean following him, running after him; feels Dean’s weight against his back as Dean grips him in a strong, awkward hug. Cas brings his hands up to cover Dean’s hands where they are closed into fists against his own chest, but Dean lets go immediately, and when Cas turns to look at him, he looks red-faced and weirded out.

“I’ll drive you,” he says, a bit unsteadily. “Let me drive you to Lebanon. You can catch a bus from there.”

Cas doesn’t understand what’s going on. His own emotions are too much of a mess right now, and it would be sheer folly to try and understand Dean’s.

“I don’t mind walking,” he says, and Dean looks like he’s been slapped.

“Okay,” he says, after a long minute. “Here. Take this, at least.”

He takes his wallet out of his pocket, shuffles through it, puts a credit card in Cas’ hands. Cas takes it and looks at it.

_Christopher Johnson_ , the thing reads.

Cas gives it back to Dean.

“This is stolen money, Dean. If I am to start my life anew, I want to - I need to do it right this time. No more sinning.”

“Cas - this is - for fuck’s sake, how will you _live_?”

“I will work,” says Cas simply, and Dean frowns.

“And we don’t?” he says, a hint of anger in his voice. “It never bothered you before, anyway. Watching us cheat at cards and hustle pool and stuff.”

Cas looks down.

_And it never bothered you before to have me around_ , he thinks.

“I need to do it right this time,” he repeats, because he won’t beg, won’t -

“For the bus,” says Dean, forcing a fifty dollar bill in his hand, and then he claps him on the shoulder and - and he walks away.

Cas realizes too late, when he’s on his way to Idaho, that his last sentence could have been heard so wrongly - that Dean will now think Cas regrets everything they’ve done together.

He feels a stab of pain deep inside him, but he closes his eyes against it, because it doesn’t matter; because he and Dean - whatever they had between them, it’s now over.

# α|ω

Ironically, it’s God who helps Cas. Sort of. He meets Nora in church, and it’s on the priest’s recommendation that he gets a job at the Gas-N-Sip. It’s nothing fancy, and not enough to afford a room somewhere, but Cas enjoys the hard work (the illusion of being useful). And it beats his first attempts at being human - the homeless camps, the danger of sleeping in the street, the constant worry he would get sick. Hunger; thirst.

The Gas-N-Sip is comfortable, if nothing else. The back room is a perfectly adequate place to sleep, and he can have a meal for every shift he works, and 30% off on everything inside the little shop. 

Cas is not cold or hungry anymore. 

He is, however, deeply lonely.

“What was her name?” Nora asks one morning, as Cas is stocking the shelves.

“What?”

“You have that look on your face, like someone left you.”

Cas freezes. Is this - people can _see_ this? He’d never thought - never considered - of course, as an angel he’d been able to tell, he’d seen everything, from heartache to past abuse to high cholesterol, but as a human - he never knows what people are thinking, or if they really mean what they say, and he’d assumed this was normal. But apparently it isn’t. It’s _not_ normal. It’s yet another way he’s flawed. And it could be dangerous, as well, because there are still angels hunting him, and -

“I can’t talk about it,” he says, upset, mortified.

Nora watches him for a moment.

“I understand,” she says. “I’ve been through a few bad break-ups myself. But, Steve - she didn’t deserve you, you know that, right?”

Cas doesn’t answer, and doesn’t correct her, because it doesn’t matter if Dean is actually a man: things were never like that between them, and it’s the other way around. He’s the one who never deserved Dean.

# α|ω

Two weeks later, Cas sees it on the news. Suspicious deaths, flashes of bright light. His first instinct is to walk over to the police station and offer his expertise - if people are dying, he needs to help - but by now, he understands this is a stupid plan.

He spends a whole morning staring down at his phone as he works - there are only two numbers in it, Nora’s and Dean’s - and when he steps outside during his lunch break, he skims over the texts he’s received, slowly and unwillingly. He knows all of five of them by heart, and he’s never replied to any of them. 

_Hi Cas, how are things?_

_Where are you, buddy? Everything okay?_

_Me and Sam are working a case in Nevada. You nearby?_

_I’m getting a little worried, pal. You good?_

_Cas, I understand if you’re angry at me. But trust me on this, okay? Please?_

There’s also a vocal message, and Cas listens to it now, because he needs to call Dean and he wants to get used to his voice first, like a kid who steps into cold water one step at a time with the illusion putting his head under will be any easier this way.

_Voicemail received on November 3rd, two forty-five a.m._ , says the voice, and, like every time, Cas’ hands contract on the phone, because Mary Winchester had died exactly thirty years ago that day and he still remembers it - the house burning, and Dean, a child of five, standing very straight, his baby brother in his arms, looking at the inferno.

Cas has no idea as to what Dean and Sam have done on the anniversary itself - humans have bizarre and varied rituals involving death. He likes to think Dean and Sam have treated themselves to some kind of meal, but he doesn’t know. What he does know, however, is that, late at night, Dean had been alone. And that he’d been drinking a lot.

“Cas, you bastard,” says his voice now in Cas’ ear. “Why don’t you fucking pick up your fucking phone? Some guardian angel you are.”

There is a pause, then, and the noise of glass being moved around.

“If you’re dead, I’m gonna _kill_ you,” says Dean, illogically, but then the anger flows away from his slurred vowels like a wave at low tide. “I _need_ you, man. Where are you? I want -”

That is the end of the message. Cas has wondered, for way more time than it was decent, what it was that Dean had meant to say. _I want_ \- what? But it was unfair to hold Dean accountable to his drunken self. After much consideration, Cas had finally texted him back the following morning.

_Everything is fine. I hope you and Sam are doing okay._

Cas had agonized for hours before sending the thing, because there should have been an _I miss you_ somewhere in that text. But Nora had told him the three rules to get over an ex: never contact them, try and remember the bad times and not only the good ones, and never, ever let them know you wanted them back.

“People break up for a reason,” she’d said once, putting a hand on Cas’ arm. “And if she thinks you want her back, that gives her power over you. This woman destroyed your life - don’t give her anything else, Steve. You deserve more.”

Cas has tried to follow her advice, but it hasn’t worked very well. Granted, he hadn’t contacted Dean, and as a result Dean had thought he was dead, and surely, that couldn’t be good? And as for bad times - Cas could not find in his heart any bad time in the traditional sense of the word. Bad times were Dean dying on him, over and over again. Bad times were Naomi’s mind control, and himself beating Dean, making him bleed and breaking his bones. Bad times were Dean being upset and guilty and deeply convinced he didn’t deserve anyone or anything. He knew Nora would have preferred Cas (well: Steve) think about fights or petty offences, but Cas just can’t. Even when he and Dean had been fighting, Cas had loved him. Had _understood him_. And Dean had mostly been right in the end, so.

But still, Nora knows more about the world than he does. And so he hadn’t said that _I miss you_. He’d just sent the text, and then done his best to forget all about it.

Now, though, people are dying. Cas puts down the phone, resisting the temptation to listen to the voice message a second time. Instead, he walks back inside the Gas-N-Sip, goes back to work. 

_You have to call him_ , says a little voice inside him. _You don’t know how many other people will die. Dean can save them_.

This is something else Cas doesn’t like about being human. Obsessive thoughts masquerading as other people inside his head. Little voices of doubt, constant suggestions that he should do things differently; better.

But, now, they are right.

His heart suddenly beating very fast, Cas punches Dean’s number in the phone, and then continues his work on the slurpee machine, waiting for Dean to pick up.

“Hello?”

This is it. This is Dean’s voice. He’s not drunk now, Cas can tell that much for the single word. Does he remember calling Cas? He probably does. He probably thinks it was a mistake, because he’s never texted Cas back.

“I may have a case for you. Four missing in Rexford, Idaho,” he says, quickly. “Presumed dead, but no bodies have been released to loved ones. And there were reports of a strange substance at the scenes.” 

There is a slight pause from the other end of the line.

“Oh, well, hello to you too, Cas. How are you?”

Cas’ mouth is dry, and his heart is beating so fast he thinks he will pass out.

_Don’t let her know you miss her_ , Nora had said.

“I’m - busy,” he says, curtly, and he has to force the words out, because Dean’s voice - because _Dean_ -

“Alright,” says Dean, though it doesn’t seem alright. “So, how do you want to do this? You want to meet up at the latest scene? You want me to pick you up? What?”

Cas’ hands turn to jelly - he turns something the wrong way around and there is an explosion of blue liquid all over his chest.

_You want to meet - you want me to pick you up?_

They haven’t spoken for six weeks. Dean told him to get out, and now he’s acting as if that never happened. Cas is both happy and furious, and he doesn’t understand how the two emotions can live together inside his chest - he can’t deal with either, he can’t -

“Uh - I've got my hands full over here. I just -”

His grip on the phone is becoming less secure by the second, and the blue liquid is still squirting everywhere.

“Cas? Hello?”

Cas bites down on his lip, tries to get back to reality, to what actually matters.

“- thought you would want to know about the case,” he says, and then he hangs up and goes back to his job.

# α|ω

“I'll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols.”

When Cas looks up, he can’t breathe. And hours later, he still can’t believe it. Dean _came_. Dean was _happy_ to see him. In fact, Dean stayed the night, for no reason at all, and he’s now lying on the other bed in the small motel room, barely six feet from him. Cas can hear, only just, the sound of his breathing.

He wishes, more, than anything, that he could stand up and walk over to him and burrow under the sheets and hug him and never let go.

Heat pools in his chest at the thought, and then goes lower, and Cas blushes in the dark, because this is not the moment - it’s not like that, not at all -

“So, how did that dickbag find you?” asks Dean, and his voice seems softer than usual, but maybe it’s just the darkness.

Cas wonders if Sam and Dean ever do this - just talk with the lights off. He has a feeling they didn’t, though. They are both secretive, guarded men. They like to look people in the face when they’re speaking. And with the kind of life they have, it makes sense that they would sleep as soon as the lights are out, anyway.

“I thought you said you were warded,” adds Dean, and it almost sounds like an accusation, as if Dean is sure Cas screwed up in some way.

Cas looks up at the ceiling.

_I just followed the sound of your pain. You have no idea how loud it is. I could hear you for miles_ , says Ephraim in his mind.

“You know how,” he says, because Dean is smart, and he’s already figured it out, and Cas won’t talk to him if Dean can’t admit that much.

There is a very long pause. Cas hears Dean turn this way, then that.

“He didn’t get it, though,” he says, in the end. “One of the guys he ganked had the suicide helpline on speed dial, but the others - he killed a teenage _girl_ , for Chrissakes. He tried to kill the _baby_.”

Cas doesn’t reply.

“He was wrong about you, right?”

A car pulls up outside, and a yellow glow descends in the room for a few seconds. Cas glances to his right, and sees Dean staring at him.

“He was wrong,” says Dean again, once the room is dark, and it’s not clear if he means it as a question or a statement.

“I don’t know, Dean. What do you want me to say?”

Dean swears and sits up.

“I want you to say you don’t want to _die_ , Cas. That you don’t want to _kill_ yourself.”

There is something else inside Cas’ chest now, and he realizes, to his horror, that he’s about to cry.

“I don’t _know_ what I want, what I don’t want. I don’t _understand_ it, any of it.”

“Cas -” says Dean, and he sounds - Cas feels himself losing what little self-control he has.

“I don’t _know_ what I’m feeling. And I certainly don’t _deserve_ to live, not after everything. Now I’m human, I - it’s _cold_ , Dean. I used to be - I used to hear my brothers’ voices inside my head. And now - now everything is different. Now I’m alone. There’s this - distance - between humans, and I -”

Cas stops talking, turns on his side, facing away from Dean. There is a moment of silence, then he hears Dean stand up and walk over to him. Before he can even decide if he wants to do something about it or not, Dean sits down on the edge of his bed.

“The distance isn’t always there, Cas,” he says, softly. “You know that. You’re not alone.”

Cas doesn’t reply, because Dean doesn’t get it. It’s not only his brothers - these brothers he has betrayed and killed and very nearly destroyed - it’s Dean himself. Cas misses the weight of Dean’s soul against his own, he misses it so much sometimes he can’t breathe from the pain of it. He’s a fool, and he’d never realized how deeply it was a part of himself before it had been snatched away.

“There is no distance between you and me, buddy,” says Dean, and now he’s touching Cas; he has a hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting. “You know that.”

“Do I?” says Cas, and he knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he can’t help it.

Dean sighs.

“Move over,” he says, and when Cas hesitates, he climbs inside the bed anyway, pushing Cas towards the edge so they can both fit.

“Me and Sam used to do this as kids,” Dean says. “Because - well. When Dad was gone, and stuff. Humans get lonely, man. It’s the deal. But you’re not alone.”

This time, Cas can’t stop the tears. He already knows what crying is like, and he’s grateful that this, right now, is quiet and silent, and not that crying where he can’t breathe, that crying that makes his head hurt afterwards. He doesn’t even realize Dean can hear him until Dean turns around and hugs him from behind.

“Come on, now,” he says, kissing his hair. “We’ll fix it.”

Cas grips Dean’s arm, and this time, Dean lets him. They fall asleep in a sad, messy hug, and when Cas wakes up, Dean is already showering, and Cas is left unsure about the truth of it all - about what it meant, and if it happened at all.

# α|ω

Cas spends the whole day in a daze. He doesn’t know what to think anymore, because Dean left, again, but he also held him all through the night, and do friends do that? He thinks about asking Nora, but then he realizes he would have to explain the whole thing, and he’s not even sure about when it all started.

He’s been trying to not think about it, actually, because he’s terrified of finding out what else he may have forgotten. He knows he still remembers everything about this Dean, about his current life, and that will have to be enough.

Or maybe now is the time to tell him - right now, before Cas forgets all of it and it all gets lost.

He’d been close to telling him, yesterday. Cas pushes the box he’s carrying at the very end of the shelf, and he remembers Dean’s amused expression as he’d first taken in the small room, the register, the slurpee machine.

“This is some cover,” he’d said, smiling, and Cas had snapped.

“My Grace is gone. What did you expect? Do you have any idea how _hard_ it was? When I fell to Earth, I didn't just lose my powers. I -”

_I lost_ you, he’d been about to say. _I lost the ability to feel your soul, the power to keep you safe, the very memories of all the lives we’ve shared_.

But that would have been wrong, thinks Cas, moving to the back door again and picking up another box. He’d been angry, and this - he should tell Dean about it, and there is no more point in waiting, but it should be done at the right time; in the right way.

Nora comes in. She checks something on her clipboard, then she looks at Cas, and then away again.

Cas stops what he’s doing, turns to face her.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“No, I - I just wanted to thank you again. For last night,” she says.

Cas feels himself blushing.

“Think nothing of it,” he says, embarrassed.

Dean had been about to tease him, later - after Nora had come back and Ephraim’s body had been disposed of and Dean had picked him up from Nora’s house. He’d been about to say, no doubt, that Cas had failed, spectacularly, that he’d read Nora all wrong. Cas had seen in on his face, and he’d known Dean would have said whatever he so clearly wanted to say just to be funny, but he’d found he couldn’t bear it, all the same.

_Don’t say anything_ , he’d said. _Please_.

Dean had frowned.

_I was only going to say that you look like you could use a beer_ , he’d offered, and that had been it.

“It was nice of your friend to pick you up so late,” Nora adds, à propos of nothing.

“Yeah, he’s - he didn’t have to come back,” Cas says, and then he sort of moves towards the back door again, because he still has a dozen boxes of Cheetos to stack and he’s running a bit late.

“Was that your ex?” asks Nora, her voice suddenly very low.

Cas freezes.

“He -”

The words won’t come out.

“It’s not like that,” he says, and Nora glances up at him.

“But he’s the one, isn’t it - he’s the person you’ve been missing.”

“Yes.”

There’s no point in denying this. 

“You never told me you were gay,” says Nora, after a slight pause.

Cas looks down, then up.

“Does it make a difference?” he asks, because it’s easier than getting into that whole other conversation - that as an angel, he’d been completely indifferent to the shape of human bodies, and even now, he doesn’t notice it all that much.

“You should have told me. I left you alone with my _child_ , and I wouldn't - I -”

Cas has been distracted for a good half of this conversation - 

(- he’s been distracted all day, because all he’s been able to think about is Dean, Dean kissing his hair, Dean looking away, then straight at him, as he apologized, as he told him he’d done well -)

\- but now he suddenly realizes what is going on.

“Gay men like other men. Not children,” he says, cautiously, and apparently it was the exact wrong thing to say.

“You _lied_ to me,” snaps Nora. “We talked about this, and you told me your ex was a _woman_ -”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You _implied_ it. You _let_ me believe it. I don’t want - you know, I took a huge risk hiring you.”

Cas just looks at her.

“Nobody knows where you came from. I don’t even know if Steve is your real name. And then this morning,” she says, shuffling the papers in her clipboard, “I checked the address you gave me, and the people living there say they’ve never heard of you.”

“You said I’m good at my job,” says Cas, stubbornly.

Nora bites her lips.

“I’m sorry, but this is not working out. I mean, I don’t want you to - it’s good you can -”

At first, Cas doesn’t know what she’s trying to say. He’s thinking about other things - if Nora is now checking where he sleeps, he won’t be able to stay here tonight, and he doesn’t have enough money to rent a place long-term -

\- and then it hits him. He remembers, in a sudden, painful flash, Dean’s terror as his father has crashed that party in New York and had found him on a boy’s lap.

_I’m giving you one chance to make this right_ , John had hissed, dragging him to his feet by his collar. _Do something like this again and I’ll kick you out for good_.

“So what you’re saying,” says Cas, carefully, trying to push back the memory, “is that you’ll accept the fact that I’m gay but that you don’t want me working here because of it.”

“No,” says Nora, a bit too quickly, and now she looks upset as well. “No, what I’m saying is, you lied to me, Steve. I don’t know who you are, and I think it’s better if you just go.”

Without saying another word, Cas unbuttons his vest and puts it on the shelf behind him. Then he turns around, picks up his duffel bag from the corner, and walks out.

# α|ω

It was a foolish notion, all of it. That he could live as a human, and that he could have a normal life at that.

There is an FBI badge in one of the pockets of the bag. Cas sits back on the motel bed and turns Dean’s credit card over and over in his fingers. Dean has slipped it in his pocket before leaving, and Cas hasn’t used it - yet.

But if he wants to do this, to join the fight, he needs armour. Well: he needs a suit, and a gun, and a car.

Cas sighs.

# α|ω

Three weeks later, the ache is still there, but the shame has gone. Cas has been careful in his spending, but he’s gotten what he needed. And as he listens to the local sheriff, he’s not concerned about it at all. Stealing is a petty crime in comparison with what is going here: murder, and civil war.

And when he sees Dean and Sam walking towards him, he can’t help smiling.

# α|ω

“I don't feel good about it, but I don't have a choice. It's great to have your help, Cas, okay, but we just can't work together.” 

Dean looks down before Cas can read his expression. Sadness? Guilt? Worry?

Cas still doesn’t know what is going on, with any of it.

“I don’t understand,” he says, and Dean sighs.

“Let me go check on Sam,” he replies, and then he stands up, pats Cas’ shoulder, and walks out.

Cas waits for a few seconds, and then follows him. He doesn’t even know why he’s doing it. He always marveled at how mindless humans were most of the time, but now he gets it - it’s like following orders, in a way - it may be his love for Dean forcing him out of the bar, because he hates to see Dean upset; or it may be down to other, more selfish reasons - it may just be that he’s sick and tired to be lied to, that he feels he’s done everything Dean has asked him to (he’s tried to get out, and then he’s gotten back in, and now he’s even using his stupid parlour tricks to get clothes and alcohol) and that this is something he _should_ know. Full stop.

When he catches up with them, he sees they’re both standing in the parking lot. Sam is closing the Impala’s door, and Dean suddenly walks forward, grips his shoulder.

“I want to talk,” he says, in the voice of someone who’s said the words before, “to _you_.”

Sam seems to freeze where he is, and then, slowly, he turns around, his face stern and expressionless. There is something so threatening about him Cas almost takes a step forward, because he had never fully realized until now how much taller and broader Sam is, how he could easily -

“Have you told him yet?” Sam says, and he sounds so much unlike himself Cas shakes his head, tries to clear it.

“There has to be another way,” says Dean, letting his hand fall and taking a step back. “There _has_ to be.”

“There isn’t.”

Could Sam be _possessed_? Is this what Dean is not telling him? Have they made another deal with Crowley? Cas fights to hang on to the thought, because it is vitally important, but his humanity soon takes over - they are clearly talking about him, and he needs to hear it - he wants to know -

“Cas is just _Cas_ ,” says Dean, in exasperation. “He’s not _dangerous_.”

Sam’s frown deepens.

“Wherever you go, he’ll follow,” he says, and now Cas is sure Sam is possessed, because this is - whoever this thing is, it knows - 

Cas is overwhelmed by panic as he realizes Dean is probably about to be told everything, because this was never the way he wanted Dean to find out. He considers making his presence known, but before he can make up his mind, Dean makes some sort of disbelieving sound.

“Dude, just because Cas has - imprinted on me, or something, doesn’t mean we can’t -”

“ _Imprinted_ on you?” scoffs Sam. “He’s in _love_ with you, you fool.”

Dean just stares at him, and Cas stares at Dean, his own heart disappearing inside his chest. 

So this is what Dean understands about them. 

What he thinks Cas wants. 

After all this time - after all this pain - Dean is describing him like some sort of - of duckling, like a love forged out of three thousand years of battles is nothing more than this - a thoughtless instinct. A whim of fate. Dean has noticed, because how could he not, that Cas is learning to be human by copying him, and this is what he thinks - that Cas is doing it because he’s some kind of empty drone, with no mind of his own. Once upon a time, Cas had been just that, and, at first, he’d even considered his growing affection for Dean as some kind of - of homing instinct. He’d thought about the feeble, yet relentless tapping of a chick’s beak against the inside of its shell - _through the wall comes a whiteness, but the chick does not know it is light; yet it taps at the white wall, not knowing why_ \- because, indeed, discovering he could _feel_ had been a long, harrowing process - _lightning strikes his heart; the shell breaks open_ \- but in those last moments, when Dean had been killed by the Hellhounds, Cas had made the choice to be _different_ : to be _himself_. He’d _chosen_ to love Dean, unconditionally, and he’d done it not out of some secret instinct or hidden corruption with himself. He’d done it because - because of love itself.

_Love is sufficient unto love_.

When Sam starts speaking again, Cas has to force himself to listen, because his mind is spinning. He feels like something inside him has crumbled and died.

“And love is a dangerous weakness. There is no telling what Castiel will do to keep you safe. You must tell him to go, and you must do so now, Dean.”

Dean looks stunned for a second, and then he actually launches himself at his brother.

“Take it back - you take it back,” he says and Sam brings his hands up, shoves him, hard.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, and Cas can tell from his voice that this is Sam, the real Sam, but Dean won’t be stopped - he picks himself up from the floor and runs at his brother again.

“You just said - you take it _back_ ,” he says, wildly, out of control.

“I was talking about - what did I say?” says Sam, and now he sounds uncertain, and Dean leaves his fists drop, seemingly with great effort; and then he turns around, sees Cas looking at them, and something which looks very much like pain flashes upon his face.

Cas turns around and walks inside the bar again.

“Cas! Cas, wait!” calls Dean, but, for the first time in his life, Cas doesn’t stop.


	7. Winter 2013 - Summer 2016

Cas had a dream, once, about the end of all things, but the reality of it turns out to be rather different.

That dream had been painful and grim, but he and Dean had been together. Both of them had been so much unlike themselves as to be almost unrecognizable, but, in every way that mattered, they had still found each other. Dean hadn’t cared that Cas had been broken and out of his mind; and Cas hadn’t cared Dean had turned into a hard, unloving man. They’d still shared a bed as the Apocalypse inched closer and closer to them. They still kissed each other in the dark, and Cas had had a constant song of joy and praise in his heart, even when Dean bit him hard enough to draw blood, even when he stopped moving and lowered his forehead on Cas shoulder and Cas could hear the sobs raking him. They had been wrong and lost, but they’d still been everything to each other.

This, however, is rather different. 

Castiel has been in trouble before; he’s been miserable and broken. He’s been dead.

And still, nothing compares to this.

Dean not remembering, Dean not loving him, he could cope with (barely); but Dean not understanding - not accepting - Dean not -

Cas drives away from the bar before Dean can catch up with him, so he can hold on to the possibility that Dean was trying to catch him (still). He is feeling so many things at once he can’t tell them apart. He is feeling, most of all, human, and he can’t bear it.

His phone starts ringing and Cas closes his hands on the wheel until his knuckles whiten. He won’t answer. He doesn’t want to know what Dean has to say; in what new way he will manage to tell him that, apparently, he’s changed his mind, and he doesn’t love Cas, not anymore; or not like that, anyway.

Cas dips into that other thing - the possibility Dean has never loved him like that, not really, and that Cas has just misunderstood the whole thing. He was an angel, after all, when he’d first learned about it - when he’d noticed Dean’s soul tinging up with pink whenever he himself was nearby - when he’d first heard the desperation, the certainty in Dean’s voice ( _I need you_ ). And angels do not, in the end, understand. Humans are far more complex than Cas ever imagined.

The phone rings a second time. Cas lets it go to voicemail. 

Being mortal and being in love, he thinks, is a toxic combination. It has robbed him of his intelligence and strategic skills (all these months, Dean has been the only thing on his mind; he’s been distracted and stupid, and he’s paid the price for that); of his courage (he is constantly terrified by the idea they could both die before - before -); of his angelic selflessness (he doesn’t even care, in a way, that Dean’s soul is not gone from the world: the constant angst beating inside him, threatening to explode out of his ribs is the fact that he, Cas, can’t see it, and what will happen if he’ll be forced to stay human forever? How will he bear the loss of this magnificent, extraordinary creation that is Dean’s soul soothing him with its music and colour?).

Yes, this warmth inside him - his love for Dean - is stripping him of all he is; Castiel fears this process will soon be complete, fears that any minute now there will be nothing left at all.

With a heavy heart, he stops the car and picks up the phone from where he’d thrown it, somewhere on the back seat. Scrolling through it, he discovers he has indeed a new voicemail.

He wishes for a second he were a seraph again; wishes he could just crush this piece of human ingenuity in his hand before his curiosity and his pathetic needs could take over.

But, of course, he’s not strong enough. Not anymore.

He clicks on the right key, and Dean’s voice echoes inside the car.

“Man, pick up. Come on. I know I should tell you what’s going on, and -” there is a pause and an odd noise, as though Dean has put the phone down for a second. “Look, what - what he said - Cas, I -”

Cas tenses, his fingers so tight on the phone he fears he will, after all, break it, and he waits as Dean breathes into the thing, seemingly unsure about how his sentence should end.

“You know I don’t - I mean, I want - Cas, can we talk about this? Just - come back. Please?”

The thing clicks, and Cas turns it off.

 _You know I don’t_ , Dean has said, and what is it, exactly, that he doesn’t do? _I want_ , he’s said, just like he’d said in that other voicemail, but Cas has lost enough sleep trying to figure out what Dean wants. 

It used to be so easy, he thinks, and it comes to him, shining and whole - Dietmar pushing him down on the bed, Dietmar kissing him - and Cas pushes back against the memory, because that hadn’t been the right time - _this_ , right here, is the right time - is, in fact, the _last_ chance they have, and Cas can’t -

Fighting the urge to throw up, he turns the key in the ignition, starts driving again. He goes on for miles, his eyes fixed on the road, yet oblivious to it, and when dawn breaks, something inside him shakes him, hard, tells him he’s human, and he needs to stop and sleep before he kills someone; and Cas does it, slowly, merely going through the motions - he stops at the next motel he sees, pays for his room - but when he crosses the threshold he find he can’t - it’s such an anonymous room, so similar to the thousands of rooms the Winchester brothers have shared before Cas was even able, or allowed, to join them, and everything is just too much.

He lets go of his bag, and he walks to the bedside table instead, fishes an old _Bible_ out of it.

He flips through it, his hands slow and and heavy, his mind numbed by the long night and the pain and the lack of sleep; and then he lets it fall on the bed and kneels.

“I - I wouldn't presume to ask for help if I weren't desperate,” he says, “but I need help. I'm lost.”

# α|ω

When he hears from Dean next, they are both so far gone Cas doesn’t even realize whom he’s talking to until Dean starts to cry in the phone.

“Can you come to the Bunker?” he forces out. “Please?”

“Dean - Dean, what happened?”

“I need you,” says Dean and Cas pushes it all aside - the horror and discomfort of his stolen Grace, his disgust at what he has now become - because if Dean wants him there, then Dean will have him there. Dean will always come first.

“I’ll be in Lebanon tomorrow,” he says at once, and Dean hangs up.

This time, Cas steals a car. He simply steps into the middle of the road, forces the red Volvo coming towards him to a stop, wrenches its driver from the car (a middle-aged man wearing a cheap suit) and blesses him asleep, charms him to forget the theft even happened. The last thing he needs right now is the police on his tail. Frowning, he points his fingers at the plates and bends his fingers until two of the numbers switch places. Then he pushes the sleeping man on the deserted pavement and drives away.

It’s very early morning in a small town; no one has seen him.

And Cas doesn’t care about crime anymore. He’s committed the worst sin an angel could ever commit - he’s stolen his dying brother’s Grace - he’s beyond redemption now. 

As he drives, he thinks about Dean, cautiously, almost warily, trying to see, once again, if he has lost his capacity to feel.

Everything, though, is still the same, and Cas breathes out in relief. Like the poets say, love, it seems, is indeed like fire, and now his heart has been burnt to cinders by the real (human) strength of his devotion, it won’t be restored, not even by angelic Grace.

For which Cas is grateful, even if this means the pain is still there as well. 

He’s lost everything else, though - the need for sustenance, his extreme vulnerability to doubt, sadness and despair. He doesn’t sleep anymore, doesn’t see the world in the same way (he can hear the sounds of things again - not only so-called Angel Radio, but the quieter, constant music of human feelings and desires; of grass and flowers and trees growing). He’s recovered his memories as well, and he's trying to hold on to them as best he can - and he’s determined that this time, he will tell Dean everything - because this is stolen Grace, and it won’t be long before it wears out.

# α|ω

When he arrives at the Bunker, he knocks, but there is no answer. Frowning, he uses the side door, punching in the code Dean has given him months ago - and when he gets to the map room, he stops in his tracks.

“Dean,” he says, taking in Dean’s appearance - he looks much older, and badly ironed around the edges, and his _soul_ \- Cas can see his soul again, but it’s not the same; it feels alien and distant and different, because it’s not, after all, his own Grace running inside this borrowed body of his.

Cas pushes the thought aside, because, next, he notices that Dean appears to be packing every weapon he possesses into his duffel bag.

“Cas,” says Dean, looking up at him. He tries to smile, but it’s a hollow, scary thing. “Now, look at you, all suited up and back in the game.”

Something is incredibly wrong.

“I came as soon as you called. I -”

Cas looks beyond Dean, and he sees, for the first time, that the room is thrashed. There is a broken lamp on the floor, and pieces of paper scattered everywhere.

“Dean,” he says, slowly. “What happened? What's wrong?” 

Dean looks up at him again, shakes his head, and laughs.

“Man, I don’t even know where to start.”

It’s a very long evening after that. Cas mostly listens, and Dean mostly turns his face away, and this time Cas can see it clearly, how his soul blackens with dark grey and a sickly purple - guilt and pain and a ferocious self-hatred - and after a while, it starts to glow with the foggy white of sheer exhaustion. 

“You need to sleep,” says Cas, stating the obvious, and Dean is too drunk to protest.

Without any effort, Cas helps him to stand up and then half carries him down the corridor.

“I’ll kill him,” Dean mumbles as Cas guides him to his room, to his bed. “I don’t care if - I’ll kill him.”

“Yes, you will,” says Cas, soothingly. “In the morning. Now sleep, Dean.”

Dean falls back against the sheets, and then he moves, in an instinctive gesture, to one side of the bed, leaving the other open. 

Cas stares down at it.

He thinks about that motel in Idaho. About Dean hugging him from behind, promising him everything would be okay.

He wants, he really wants, to take off his coat and his shoes, and to lie down next to Dean; to sleep at his side even though he doesn’t need to sleep anymore. He is bone-tired and sad and confused and what Dean has done, right now, is a clear invitation, even if he’s already half asleep and drunk out of his mind.

But friends don’t share beds, and Cas won’t - won’t impose his presence where it’s not wanted. So he takes a step back instead, walks to the door, turns off the light. As he stops on the threshold for a moment, watching Dean sleep, his hand falls inside his pocket, and he feels an old paper there - the young girl’s poem, he realizes, a keepsake he’s moved from pocket to pocket in superstitious hope that, one day, he would be able to read it.

He takes it out now, steps in the barely lit corridor, and looks down at it. 

Most of the paper is gone. Cas looks at the four verses which still remain and reads them out loud.

“J’irai seule et brisant ma lyre, souffrant mes maux sans les chanter; car je sentirais à les dire plus de douleur qu’à les porter.”

He understands them now, without even needing to think about it -

_I’ll bear my pain without singing about it; because by putting it into words I would feel more anguish than I do in carrying it._

\- but things haven’t changed. He’s still as miserable and unworthy as he was on the autumn day he’d first tried to read them; perhaps even more so.

# α|ω

Living on stolen Grace is complicated. Time slides in and out of focus. Sometimes, reality is so sharp Cas feels he will bleed upon it, and other times it just fades into a mess of colours and sounds.

Cas still doesn’t understand what Dean wants, and how he feels, but he’s given up. His task now is to fight Metatron. He owes his brothers this much.

But, as in everything else, he fails. As soon as he’s asked to choose between Dean and his self-appointed mission, his resolve crumbles. His brothers turn away from him once more. And Metatron is beaten, yes, but only just - and -

\- and Dean is now -

Hours later, the truth of it is still a dark, confused matter - Sam calls Cas in hysterics, but Cas isn’t able to believe, not even now, that Dean has _died_. He can still feel Dean’s soul - not as closely as before, but, then again, his stolen Grace is sizzling out - and so, despite Metatron’s taunts, despite his gloating, Cas cannot - will not - believe that Dean is dead.

All he wants to do, all he is desperate to do, is return to Earth and see what is going on for himself.

Heaven, however, is a mess, and it’s some time before Cas manages to slip out and go back to the Bunker.

When Sam opens the door, he looks so broken and lost that Cas, without even thinking about it, steps forward and hugs him. Here, at least, there is no ambiguity, no uncertainty. Cas has come to like Sam. He feels a deep affection for this man who was destined to destroy the world and managed to save it instead - this lonely boy who remained at his brother’s side for millennia and then fought so hard to escape his own destiny.

“He’s gone. I don’t know what to do,” says Sam, pressing a hand on his face, as they go down the stairs together.

“If Dean were truly dead -”

“I don’t know what he is,” says Sam, miserably, and Cas has to agree.

He’d told Dean this would be dangerous. He is not sure the Mark of Cain can ever be removed - for the first time in his long life, he is not sure that Dean can be saved.

# α|ω

For the space of one year, Cas watches Dean fall deeper and deeper within himself - in this dark abyss which is everything he hates and fears about who he is. The Mark is preying on him, is forcing him to choose violence over kindness, death over mercy, time and time again, and Dean’s soul is starting to blacken under its influence.

Cas is very close to despair - until, miraculously, he is reunited with his own Grace. As soon as he stands up in the ruined library, he feels the familiar weight of Dean’s soul against himself, and he understands the truth of it - underneath the curse, Dean is still there, and his soul is still his. The darker colours Cas has been seeing around him are unimportant; a superficial wound which will one day heal and be forgotten.

And so Cas tries to protect Dean from himself, because he knows that, just as it happened in Hell, this is what Dean will not recover from - not his own pain, but whatever torture he might inflict on others. 

But once again, Cas fails. He can sense it before he even walks inside the Bunker - Dean’s yell of agony and self-hatred, and how it’s been silenced by the thing now attached to him.

The room is a mess.

“What have you done?” says Cas, aghast, looking down at the kid’s body.

Dean turns around, ruined and bloody.

“I took down a monster, because that's what I do,” he says, slowly, but inside his voice there is something else. Cas can hear it, loud and clear, and until he can hear it, until Dean’s true self is there, then there is hope. “And I will continue to do that until -”

“Until you become the monster.” 

“You can leave now, Cas,” says Dean, and it is both permission and plea.

But Cas doesn’t leave. That pain, that desperate call for help, is still there, and therefore he stays, and he doesn’t defend himself when Dean attacks him. He has done enough, he’s made enough wrong choices. He will not hurt Dean, and if he will die because of it, then be it.

But Dean stops. Dean looks right into his eyes, and whatever he sees in there is enough to still his hand.

As he walks away, Cas tries to form a prayer of thanks - not because his own life was spared, but because Dean is still fighting to get out, to survive - but all he can taste in his mouth is blood. And so he stops and sits up and prays for the dead instead - both for he who was innocent and for he who had sinned.

# α|ω

The following day, Cas gives up on the little pride he has left and summons Crowley again. They have seen each other since that first time, of course, but Cas has never intentionally sought him out. Crowley makes him nervous, because he’s smart and dangerous and, despite his threats and his bravado, clearly wants to claim Dean for himself.

 _Has_ claimed Dean for himself once before.

Not that it worked, thinks Cas, feeling more smug than he has any right to be.

“Blast me, or beg,” says Crowley, and Cas comes very close to roll his eyes. 

“Crowley -” 

“King!” says Crowley, and when their eyes meet, Cas knows he’s remembering that other meeting of theirs - the ruined room, and Donek’s dead body stretched out between them. 

Back then, Cas had been a mighty seraph, and Crowley but a crossroads demon. Cas had very nearly killed him, and he now sees in Crowley’s satisfied smirk that he has not forgotten this. He has no interest in true retaliation, because he is a peculiar and shrewd creature and he has not yet admitted to himself what role his own heart really plays in every decision he makes, but he is not above gloating.

But Cas is not above begging. He has done it before, to save Dean’s life. Words have power and meaning, but they are nothing compared to an actual human life.

Also, Crowley deserves this. He is a demon, but he held on to his human nature for dear life, and for this, if nothing else, Cas respects him.

“King,” he says, levelly, and Crowley smiles.

# α|ω

Cas doesn’t die. He hadn’t died under Dean’s fists, and he doesn’t die when the Darkness is first released upon the Earth, and he doesn’t die when Rowena’s spell hits him square in the chest and leaves him gasping for breath, a prisoner inside his own mind.

And when Dean finds him again, he recognizes him. He can see Dean’s soul, bright and untarnished and completely his again, even as the spell is screaming and scratching at him, and he can hear Dean’s voice over the black and grey mess that is his own conscious self.

So when Dean asks him to stop and come back to him, Cas does. It is not even a choice; it’s who he is.

# α|ω

The consequences of Rowena’s spell are far deeper and more severe than Cas had anticipated, and even though he tries to downplay his weakness in front of the brothers, he can tell they’re not fooled.

And so, to Cas’ regret, when they start hunting again, they leave him behind.

Cas is not worried (he doesn’t _want_ to be worried): this case is hardly a case, Sam has said. Both of them have survived far worse - but, says a low, anxious voice in Cas’ head, both of them have also been killed by far less (illness and starvation and ordinary human weapons).

Alone in the Bunker, Cas works and reads and waits for Dean to call. Sometimes, when his mind and his heart turn inside out and become far away, unknowable things, he stretches out on Sam’s bed and turns on the Netflix and tries to lose himself inside someone else’s life.

# α|ω

“Maybe it is your so-called werepire,” Cas says, smiling at the phone even though Dean can’t see him, “But to be honest, I have never heard of a creature with that name.”

He stops, looks down at the book again, lost in thought; and then there is a loud noise from the phone.

“Dean, what is that?” he asks, frowning.

It’s only one second later that he realizes he hasn’t, in fact, heard from Dean in a few minutes. Is he even on the phone? He’d said he was at the edge of a forest: maybe his phone is not working properly?

And then Cas hears it, and for a split second he’s human again, because his heart stops beating and his stomach folds upon itself and becomes heavy as lead.

“Dean? Dean, are you alright? I hear gunshots.”

No answer.

“Dean!”

# α|ω

The night he spends waiting for Dean and Sam to come back turns out to be a very long night.

Dean is alright; of course he is. He spent three thousand years honing his skills. He is a brave man, and a fine hunter. Cas knows all this. His anxiety, though, has nested on top of the dark memories the spell has brought to the surface, and, like some evil, diseased thing, it won’t be dislodged.

Cas wanders from room to room, as if to escape it; turns on Sam’s computer and turns it off again. He considers praying, then realizes he has no right to do so; not anymore.

He’s spoken to Dean three hours ago. He knows he’s alright, knows they are both alright, but knowing doesn’t seem to matter. Cas will need to see it before he can focus on anything else.

In fact, he is so out of his mind, so anxious and worn out and very nearly undone that he doesn't even hear the Impala driving closer. He's in the kitchen when Sam comes in, looking like something out of a medical textbook, his whole face blue and black and red with blood, and Cas looks up in alarm - he is, briefly, deeply concerned about himself, because how could he miss this - he’s been waiting for them to come back, he should have heard the garage door sliding open, he should have heard the music of Dean’s soul getting closer - and then his fear about Dean drives everything else from his mind.

“Hey, Cas,” says Sam, collapsing on a chair, and Cas feels his own heart contract in worry.

“Where is Dean?” he asks, not even realizing how rude he sounds.

Sam gestures, and sure enough, Dean appears on the threshold just as Cas is standing up. He looks even worse than Sam, bloody and tired and completely and utterly done.

Without even thinking about it, Cas walks up to him and hugs him.

“I've been so worried,” he says, against Dean's hair, and hears Dean's low chuckle in his own body.

“Well, aren't you -” he starts to say, but before he can get another word out, Cas has pulled back, pressed their lips together.

It only lasts a second - Cas has been out of it for a week, distant memories playing and replaying in front of his eyes, and he’s forgotten that this man doesn’t know - doesn’t _want_ \- that this is not what they are.

And so Cas takes a step back, embarrassed and suddenly terrified Dean might be angry at him, and he sees it happens - sees the expression on Dean's face go from shock to pleasure to a feigned indifference as Dean rolls his eyes, pats his shoulder and walks right past him.

“Nice to see you too,” he says, grabbing some beer from the fridge and popping it open on the counter.

Sam eyes him curiously, then shifts his gaze to Cas.

“Could you - uh - please?” he asks, gesturing towards his ruined face, and it is only then that Cas realizes that his kiss has, in fact, healed Dean.

He nods, still distracted, and then he takes a step forward, puts two fingers to Sam's forehead, hears Sam’s contented sigh as his skin heals. Cas then looks at Dean (Dean doesn’t look back at him), and walks out of the room.

“Dude, go _after_ him,” he hears Sam hissing.

But Dean doesn't.

# α|ω

Something still changes between then, though. Dean seems to be - softer, around him. More gentle. His touches become more frequent, more lingering.

Cas doesn’t say anything. He knows himself to be at fault here, and he’ll take whatever Dean is willing to give him.

He has given up on the truth, as well. Dean has been through enough - how would it help him?

# α|ω

Days turns into weeks, and then months. Cas grows weaker, but he doesn’t care about himself. Instead, he watches, unable to stop it, as Dean and Saw grow apart - as Sam decides to trust God, or, in any case, the god sending him prophetic dreams, and finally walks away to try and spring Lucifer free.

Cas and Dean remain the parking lot and watch the tail lights of Sam’s car disappear in the darkness.

“Did I do the right thing?” asks Dean, but Cas has no answer for him. 

“I don’t know if I should have let him go,” adds Dean, after a long moment, and Cas walks up to him, put a hand on his shoulder.

“Sam has always made his own decisions,” he says. “It’s not about permission, Dean. It’s about trust.”

“Yeah, well.”

Dean turns around, but when Cas’ arm falls, he catches it, lets his own hand close around Cas’ wrist, strong enough to hurt.

Cas doesn’t say anything. He keeps looking down at Dean’s hand on his wrist, but even so, he can perceive the outlines of Dean’s soul glowing a deep, dark pink.

“Let’s go,” says Dean, after a few second, and he lets go of Cas, walks back to the Impala.

His soul is still disturbed, though, a quiet mess of pastel colours, and Cas holds his silence, hardly daring to hope that Dean will - and then, Dean does.

“We never really talked about - you know,” he says, after about ten minutes.

“It’s okay, Dean. We don’t have to.”

“No, I -”

Dean stops, shifts in his seat.

“Listen, whatever this thing is between us - I can feel it, man. I do. But -”

He’s still not looking at Cas, but his soul is so bright right now, Cas can hardly see him.

“Cas, if I say yes, it’s forever,” he says, slowly. “And I don’t _have_ forever. Hell, I barely have a month, if my idiot brother goes through with it. So, you know.”

It’s both harder and easier to read Dean’s emotions now, because Cas can remember what they really felt like, can understand better how they all fit together. Guilt, hope, regret. Love and longing.

“But I want you here,” adds Dean, squaring his jaw. “I know it’s selfish, but -”

Cas reaches out to where Dean’s right hand is idling on the gear, closes his own fingers on top of Dean’s.

“You don’t have to ask,” he says. “And it’s not selfish. Being with you - it’s what I am.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that. He glances askance at Cas, and then back at the road. But his soul is still shining; it’s that sweet-smelling, fiery glow Cas associates with happiness.

When they get to the Bunker, there is a moment when everything is the same. Dean bids him goodnight and disappears towards his room, and Cas sits down in the map room and opens the laptop; but before Cas can even start on what he’d planned (a calculation of where, exactly, Amara could appear next), Dean is back. Cas hears his footsteps first - the soft noise of Dean’s bare feet on concrete - and when he looks up, he sees Dean has stopped by the door. He’s already changed into his night clothes, and he looks embarrassed but determined.

“Are you coming?” he asks, as though the question makes sense, as though they do this every night.

And maybe it does, maybe they do, because it’s the most natural thing in the world to nod and stand up and follow Dean down the corridor.

They lie side by side in the dark until Dean gives up, and, with a muttered curse, slides closer to Cas, passes an arm on his chest.

“If you get bored,” he says, a bit gruffly, “you can walk inside my dreams. Just - whatever you find in there, no judging, okay?”

“Agreed,” says Cas, and he remains perfectly still as Dean relaxes against him and falls asleep.

For the first time in months, he feels perfectly at peace.

# α|ω

When the end comes, it’s the end of all things (the beginning of all things), and all they have left, Dean and Cas, is each other. The war against the Darkness has been a grinding, brutal thing. It has destroyed Heaven. It has reduced Hell to mere cinders; vague memories of what the place used to be.

What hurt Dean the most, Cas knows, is that Sam gave himself up as a vessel for Lucifer. It had been the only way, their only possibility to win, and Lucifer has promised he wouldn’t hurt Sam, but Dean is still a wreck about the whole thing. In his book, it's still a defeat, because whenever Sam is hurt - whenever Sam puts himself in danger and Dean can't shield him, Dean considers he has failed. 

Cas, however, thinks there was something different about this new Lucifer; knows that, deep down, Lucifer has always cared for Sam, because Sam had been promised to him from the beginning of time, and that kind of thing leaves a mark. Cas is hopeful that Lucifer will keep his word, and right now, the world around them is so breathtakingly magnificent that he wants to give in to this hope.

Dean is still standing, only just, as he looks at the first dawn. Cas sees the pink light rise over Dean’s face and smiles, because it makes it look like Dean is healthy (and not angry and tired and bloody from the battlefield), and this is how Cas wants to remember him.

Because Cas is dying, even if Dean hasn’t realized it yet. Not that he cares about his own death. Like Dean, he was created to be a soldier. Death is not something that will happen to him; it’s what he is. 

_It’s strange how humans need to construct the most inconceivable theories about death_ , Cas thinks, _when, in the end, death is the very thing they cannot conceive of_.

“We should check on Sam,” says Dean, his eyes still on the horizon.

It has been weeks since the brothers have spoken, but Cas now knows in his heart Sam is fine. He can sense it. He thinks for a fleeting moment about little Sarid sleeping in his tent, his camel pelt pushed as close as possible to his brother’s, and is overwhelmed by sadness.

Three thousand years they have spent together, and yet Dean will never know the truth of it.

These may have been his orders, but it doesn’t make it right. And Cas is not bound by these orders, not anymore. He hasn’t had any orders, in fact, for a long time. His brothers have betrayed him and exiled him, and now most of them are dead. Lucifer has promised he would make more, promised he would raise a new angel for any the Darkness would kill, but Cas has no idea on how he intends to do it, and if they can even trust Lucifer to rule Heaven. But Michael is no more and Lucifer was created to be their Commander, so Cas sighs as he welcomes within himself the voices of those brothers who have survived - fallen angels who walk the earth without purpose; firstborns in a world they will never truly understand.

Dean will need to be wary of them, he thinks, and, again, he can taste the bitterness inside his mouth - it is an elegant, yet cruel symmetry, that Dean will now have a future without him.

“Dean,” he calls, weakly, and Dean turns around, hurries to Cas’ side, drops to his knees.

“What’s happening? Why aren’t you healing?”

“I can’t. But you have to promise me -”

“What do you mean, you _can’t_?”

“Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you’ll be happy.”

“What are you talking about? We’ll _fix_ it. We always do.”

Cas closes his eyes against the pain, and then opens them again. Dean is leaning over him, and his face is so achingly familiar Cas feels tears come to his eyes. He is even glad for these small signs of mortality on Dean’s face - those first wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, that single grey hair over his right ear - because he knows what it means - Dean’s role in all of this is over. The Righteous Man can now grow old and die; and, one day, he will claim that little corner of Paradise which has been waiting for him for so long.

But there is one thing Cas can’t bear. One thing Cas still has to do.

Gritting his teeth, he moves his hand, grips Dean’s wrist. 

“Do you see me?” he whispers, because now he’s so close to death himself he understands how important this is - he’s been lying to Dean for three thousand years, and he can’t take it -

“I got you - We’ll fix it,” says Dean again, and he clearly doesn’t get it.

Cas tightens his grip.

“Do you _see_ me?” he asks again, but he knows Dean doesn’t; he knows Dean doesn’t remember.

“Your father was king to thirteen tribes,” Cas says. “And your mother had the most beautiful green eyes. Your eyes, Dean, are Jael’s, daughter of Seth. She was - she was -”

“Cas - don’t try to speak, okay? You’re too weak. Let me just -”

But there is nothing that Dean can _just_ do. They are miles from anywhere. They have no car, no phone, and there is no one who would pick up if they had one. It’s the dawn of a new era, after all. The universe is only just starting to unfold from itself.

“She would sing you a song about clouds,” he tries again, but Dean doesn’t look reassured - he looks, in fact, downright scared. He clearly thinks Cas is hallucinating.

“Here,” Cas says, and with his last remaining strength, he brings his hand up against Dean’s forehead and he blesses him.

Dean cries out, and Cas slips inside his mind without meaning to - he hears Jael’s song first, like Dean (Dan) heard it, from inside her womb; he smells perfumes he hasn’t smelled in centuries and finds they are as familiar to him as the hue of his own Grace. Flatbread baking on an open fire; the rich, musky thing that is camel wool and the wilder, more pungent odour of goat wool. Jael’s hair, shiny with walnut oil, and Enoch’s clothes, which tell a story of weariness and blood and wide open spaces.

Cas finds Dean’s hand, blindly, as Dan falls sick and dies; and when Dan’s little hand comes up to brush against Cas’ wings, he feels Dean’s other hand close upon his own shoulder. It gives him both pleasure and pain to know Dean is finally seeing all this, because there is both pleasure and pain in a human life, and Dean has lived through two hundred human lives. He has loved and lost, he has been stabbed and strangled; he has watched his brother die, he has watched his brother marry a beautiful girl and he has danced at their wedding. Cas is too weak to focus, but he still feels them - feels the familiarity of them - Dimon and Doryclus, David and Damien and Dietmar - he knows by how the memories are shuffling against each other that Dean is now looking for something specific - Dean is looking for _him_ , is watching their every meeting, listening to every conversation they ever had. It seems like hours must have passed, or perhaps mere seconds, before Cas sees the house on fire, sees himself kneel on the grass and hug the child in front of him - sees himself blessing them both, little Sam still huddled inside his blankets and big brother Dean, dry tears on his face, his green eyes turned red by the inferno in front of him.

“You had to know,” Cas says, and he isn’t sure if he’s speaking these words out loud or inside Dean’s mind, because he isn’t sure, hasn’t been for a long time, about where Dean’s mind ends and his own begins.

“Is this -” starts Dean, but he never finishes the question because that last word, _true_ , doesn’t make any sense on his tongue.

Because of course it is true. All of it. Cas feels Dean’s mind readjust around it, feels him try again.

“You said,” comes Dean’s voice from far away (from everywhere inside himself), “you said you were mine, and I was yours. You told me that - fuck, you told me that under the walls of _Troy_. Did you mean it?”

Cas’ eyes close.

“I am sorry for deceiving you,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Goddammit, Cas.”

Dean is still gripping his shoulder tightly and, again, Cas is glad this is how it will end - this is how Cas rescued Dean from Hell, how he granted him new life - it is only fitting Dean should now be the one to witness his last death.

“Was Dietmar right?” Dean asks, and Cas can feel the question against his lips. “You know, the words in that book. Does alchemy work? Can an angel’s life be saved by a human soul?”

Cas tries to open his eyes one last time, because this is not - he won’t allow Dean to die for him, not after everything, not after -

“ _Dean_ -”

For the space of a heartbeat, their eyes lock. And then Dean smiles, a soft, loving smile.

“I have come into the Garden,” he says, and Cas’ breath catches. “I looked for you but did not find you; I called you but you did not answer.”

“Dean, _don’t_ -”

“Be merciful to me, for I am in distress. My eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and body with grief. Show me your face. Let me hear your voice.”

As soon as the words leave Dean’s mouth, Cas tries to avert his face, because he can feel the change inside him - the spell is forcing him to submit to his true form, and if Dean sees it, he will die -

There is a flash of light as Cas’ wings explode on either side of him, whole and strong again - Cas looks up in panic, but sees Dean has his eyes closed - the hand that is not gripping Cas’ shoulder has come up in front of his face -

“I am a shield around you,” says Dean, his voice becoming louder and louder against the powerful dissonant music now vibrating all around them. “I will keep watch over you, and I will not slumber nor sleep.”

Cas tries to call Dean’s name again, and finds he can’t - he reaches up instead, places his hand on top of Dean’s and prays - for the first time in a very long time, he prays to his Father, vows to forgive Him, to forget his own rage and despair, to find it within himself to become a loyal servant again - if only Dean will be spared, if only -

“I will keep my eyes on you; I will not be shaken.”

This is blasphemy; these are the words of God on the lips of a mortal man - they will both die right here in this desert - after all this time - after all this time -

“For love is as strong as death, its devotion unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Raging water cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away. You did not ask for my life, but I give it freely - length of days, for ever and ever.”

Dean’s voice lowers over the last sentence, but Cas can see deep inside his soul, and knows Dean didn’t hesitate out of incertitude - Dean is Dean, and even now, even as he is pledging his soul to Cas in an unholy, dangerous ritual - as he’s giving up his soul, his life, to save Cas’ - what worries him is not death, but voicing his own feelings; he fears speaking them out loud and being blinded by the strength of them.

 _Dean_ , thinks Cas, in unspeakable grief, because the ritual worked, he can feel life exploding inside him at this very moment, which means Dean is -

Cas opens his eyes.

Dean is right there. His hand is still on Cas’ shoulder, and he’s now squinting down at Cas, as though unsure if it’s safe to look at him again.

Cas brings his own hand up again, touches Dean’s face, slowly, tentatively.

“You - you're alive,” he says, stupidly, and Dean scoffs.

“Of course I am.”

As Cas continues to stare at him, completely shocked, Dean clears his throat, licks his lips, and then he adds, “My soul has not been my own for a long time. You thought making it official would change anything?”

He was trying for cocky, but Cas is not fooled - he can hear awe; he can hear relief; he can hear, most of all, love.

“You couldn't have known that. You could have _died_ ,” whispers Cas, and his fingers tighten on Dean’s jaw at the thought.

“Wouldn't have been the first time,” smiles Dean, and there is something about this grin of his which is making Cas ache all over – all of a sudden, he must – he _needs_ –

He doesn't move a muscle, though. He has been complicit in this lie, in the long torture the Righteous Man has endured. He has no right to demand -

But possibly Dean saw the moment come in Cas’ eyes, because he turns his head against Cas’ palm and kisses it, keeping his eyes straight in Cas’.

“Hey, I just gave you my soul. Don't I get something in return?” he asks, and he licks his lips again.

Cas blinks.

“You can take whatever you want. All I was, am and will be is yours, Dean. Always has been. Surely now you know that.”

Dean's eyes are suddenly piercingly green. He looks as distraught as the time Cas brought him back in time so he could witness his mother's sacrifice. Suddenly fearing he's done something wrong, Cas tries to sit up, to shy away from Dean, but before his movement has even begun, Dean exhales deeply and bring his hand to Cas’ cheek. His fingers trace Cas’ jaw, his lips, and seem to fit seamlessly there; it’s as if Cas had been somewhat incomplete until that very moment.

When Dean lowers his head, Cas’ breath catches, but he still looks up – looks at Dean's eyes as they close, feels Dean's lips on his own.

It is different, very much so, from any other time Dean has tried this in the past three millennia. It may very well not be the same gesture at all, because now Cas can feel it, all of it – a wave of undying love crashing down inside him (his, and Dean's, because now their souls are truly joined), a tremendous relief, and also the explosion of a ferocious hunger which will not wait, will not be appeased.

Without even meaning to, Cas brings his right hand up, threads his fingers through Dean's short hair, and pulls the man against him. It is perhaps too violent, and surely gingerly made, because their teeth clash together; but Cas feels Dean smile against his lips, and decides he doesn't care. Instead, he continues to put his hands on Dean wherever he can reach – his neck, his chest, the curve of his arm – until he feels Dean's hands between them, pushing him back, only just, so that Dean can open the buttons of his shirt.

“This damn thing,” he swears, urgently, before giving up and just ripping the fabric. “I've been wanting to do that for _years_ ,” he adds, and it was surely meant to be flirtatious, but it comes across as a bit sheepish, and Cas loves him even more for it (the idea that this brave, exceptional man – someone who has been running headfirst into battle for three thousand years – should be afraid of a kiss, of all things, is almost unbearably sweet).

“From what I understand, undressing each other is how it's usually done,” he answers. “Unless you'd prefer we do it the other way?”

He cocks his eyebrow at Dean – two can play this game – and his heart flutter when Dean's mouth falls open.

“Do it,” he says at once, and Cas snaps his fingers.

Dean doesn't waste any time. He immediately takes advantage of the fact that now they are both naked to climb on top of Cas and start kissing him again, only this time their whole bodies are touching, and it is – Cas closes his eyes, thinks he will _drown_ in this, be _killed_ by this – when Dean starts to become adventurous, Cas flips them over, tries to regain control over himself.

Perhaps Dean senses something is wrong, because he is content to just lie there, his arms at his sides, and look up at Cas in fascination as Cas kneels over him, his own hands on Dean’s chest, his fingers open wide.

“You are so beautiful,” Cas says, and Dean smiles, brings his hands up to cover Cas’.

“Show me your wings,” he says, and this could very well be the dirtiest thing Cas has heard in his entire existence.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he forces himself to say, breathing hard.

“You won't. You and me – we are the same thing, now.”

“We've always been the same thing,” Cas replies, and, with a slight movement, he makes his wings explode from his shoulders.

Like that young prince so long ago, Dean swears, and then he reaches up, passes his fingers through the feathers.

“So you remember,” smiles Cas, and the thought fills him with joy, because this little touch, right here, this is the incontrovertible proof that all is right with the world.

“I remember everything,” breathes Dean, and he reaches up, kisses Cas again.

It is bliss and perfection; it’s the only thing that matters in this newly created universe. Cas cradles Dean’s face between his hands, and Dean pulls back, only just, to lick at Cas’ lips.

“Tell me what you want,” whispers Cas, his wings coming down around them.

“I believe I told you already, back in some alley. Don't make me ask twice,” Dean answers, his fingers now dancing on Cas’ skin, exploring his thighs, gripping his hips, and the gesture is both too much and not nearly enough. Cas kisses him again, hurriedly and filthily, and the mouths his way lower, licking Dean’s neck, biting down, only just, on his shoulder, drinking in the small sighs Dean is trying to control.

“I believe I must apologize for what I am about to do,” breathes Cas, right in Dean's ear, and feels him tremble all over.

“What – what are you about to do, Cas?”

Dean's voice is a broken mess, and Cas suddenly feels the urge of breaking it even more.

“I know what you like,” he says quietly, and he plants little, playful bites on the shell of Dean’s ear. “I have been watching you for centuries. I know exactly -” he passes his hand over Dean's chest, letting his nails graze his nipples “- what turns you mad with need -” his hand moves lower, avoiding the obvious, teasing the skin of Dean's inner thigh “- what makes you scream for mercy.”

Dean is breathing hard now. It looks like he'd like to say something snarky about it, but all of his sentence-forming skills have been sucked right out of his brain.

“And I know you want my mouth on you. My fingers on you,” adds Cas, and this time he touches Dean's dick, only just, and Dean bites back a moan. “But I fear I have no patience for it, not now. I have been waiting for you for far too long.”

“What - Cas?”

“You seemed happy with me cheating just now. I thought I'd do it again,” says Cas, and this time he lets it happen as he licks his way down Dean's neck, knows it has worked when he hears Dean's sharp intake of breath, his barely shaped _What_ , and, without leaving him the time to recover his senses, Cas plunges right into him.

It doesn't hurt Dean; of course it doesn't. His powers have taken care of that, and next time, Cas will take his time with it; will do it slowly and lovingly, like humans do. He's looking forward to it. But right now, his need for Dean will not be hindered.

As the sun comes up, they move together, oblivious to its light. Dean is looking up at Cas as if he’s never seen him properly before, and Cas is quickly losing control, because he’s known this man’s soul for centuries, and yet he’s never felt it so close as it is now - it is a raw, intoxicating thing. The world before this, he knows it in his very heart, had no colours in it, no music and no meaning.

His love for Dean is suddenly too much - desperate, unapologetic, too big to be understood - and Cas stops moving, lowers his forehead to Dean and realizes only when he feels Dean’s fingers on his face that he is, in fact crying.

“Hey,” says Dean, softly, though he sounds a little out of breath. “It’s okay. I’m here. I love you.”

Just like that, everything makes sense again. Cas shudders and moves to kiss Dean again, and then holds him close as their passion suddenly overwhelms them both.

Later, Cas has enough presence of mind to turn them over so he won’t crush Dean - his wings become simple shadows, stretched out on the ground on either side of him - before lying down on the fine sand, exhausted and overwhelmed.

“That was -” says Dean, and he was clearly going for something sarcastic and self-deprecating, but he just can’t manage it; he moves around instead, makes himself comfortable over Cas’ body.

“Yes,” says Cas, his eyes still closed.

“Don't think I'm still not pissed about you lying to me for bloody _centuries_ ,” Dean adds, and Cas’ eyes snaps open. He looks up at Dean, suddenly fearful.

“You can make it up to me by bringing me breakfast in bed for the next sixty years or something,” says Dean, lazily, and he reaches over, strokes Cas’ face.

Cas catches his hand, turns it over, kisses his palm.

“How about the next three thousand?” he says, seriously, and Dean laughs and leans over and kisses him on the lips; and both his soul and Cas’ Grace turn a deep, shining pink; a clear, joyful colour which stretches and fades inside the rising sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. God, it’s finished. I feel beaten down and weird and like I haven’t slept for a week, but these first few episodes of Season 11 gave me all the feels, and Cas - I can’t - it felt good spending all these hours trying to work out what the inside his head feels like.
> 
> But mostly - guys, I - thanks for reading. As I said, this fic started out as one conversation in Greece, and then took a life of its own as I began to wonder - if Dean and Sam are so important, what are the chances they were left alone all that time? Anyway, I know this story was bizarre and personal and somehow sad, so thank you for giving it a chance. I think now I’ll go back to my Season 11 series and to coda fics and also, perhaps, real life.


	8. Quotes

The title of this fic comes from the famous premise of _Fullmetal Alchemist_ , but is also one of the founding principles of Greek culture. The idea is that nothing comes from free: if you have received something, you will sooner or later pay the price for it; and if you want to achieve something, you must offer something else of equal value in return. I basically grew up with characters whose lives were defined by this law, and I have come to find it completely reasonable and apparent in real life as well. Sacrifice, and, in the most extreme cases, self-sacrifice, is key to our identities as humans. Greece and Rome were built upon this principle, and Christianity elevated it to an art form. It is no wonder, really, that we respond so well to it as a television trope. And, I say, bring it on - who needs a working heart, anyway?

 

Here are the quotes I used. I hope I got them all - if you see I’ve forgotten something, please let me know. Also, I didn’t include actual conversations we saw on the show, because I know you guys will have recognized them. I didn’t modify them in any way; if anything seems unfamiliar, it's because I used the extended edition stuff.

(Speaking of which, I was moved and saddened and angered by the fact they cut one of the most incredible and significant Castiel quote ever - remember when Cas says ‘I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. To you.’? Well, it was nice and all, but it would have been even nicer to know the original sentence continued with ‘Even to your brother’. I have been puzzled by that implied plural for years, and now I know that, yeah, it wasn’t a plural at all. Cas did it always, all of it, for Dean. He came to like Sam out of his love for Dean, and that is canon, and apparently it has been canon since Season 4. Was I the only one who didn’t know?)

 

_I thought, There goes my lord, whom I was born to follow. I have found a King.  
And, I said to myself, looking after him as he walked away, I will have him, if I die for it._ \- Mary Renault

_All tragedies deal with fated meetings; how else could there be a play? Fate deals its stroke; sorrow is purged, or turned to rejoicing; there is death, or triumph; there has been a meeting, and a change. No one will ever make a tragedy—and that is as well, for one could not bear it—whose grief is that the principals never met._ \- Mary Renault

_I saw death come for you, and I had no philosophy. -_ Mary Renault

_He stood between death and life as between night and morning, and thought with a soaring rapture, 'I am not afraid’._ \- Mary Renault

_He was filled with a vast sense of the momentous, of unknown mysteries. He did not know what he should demand of himself, nor did it seem to matter, for he had not chosen this music he moved to, it had chosen him._ \- Mary Renault

_The living chick in the shell has known no other world. Through the wall comes a whiteness, but he does not know it is light. Yet he taps at the white wall, not knowing why. Lightning strikes his heart; the shell breaks open._ \- Mary Renault

_Nelly, I am Heathcliff - he's always, always in my mind - not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself - but, as my own being._ \- Emily Brontë

_He shall never know I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same._ \- Emily Brontë

_Mes pleurs sont à moi, nul au monde  
Ne les a comptés ni reçus,  
Pas un oeil étranger qui sonde  
Les désespoirs que j’ai conçus  
L’être qui souffre est un mystère  
Parmi ses frères ici-bas ;  
Il faut qu’il aille solitaire  
S’asseoir aux portes du trépas.  
J’irai seule et brisant ma lyre,  
Souffrant mes maux sans les chanter ;  
Car je sentirais à les dire  
Plus de douleur qu’à les porter._ \- Louise Ackermann

[It’s true that I couldn’t find a translation for this, so here is mine if anybody is interested:  
My tears are my own, nobody on Earth/ Has counted them or claimed them,/ No stranger’s eye can fall upon/ the despair I’ve nurtured./ A suffering creature is a mystery/ Among its brothers on this Earth;/ It must wander alone/ And sit by the doors of the Afterworld./ I’ll go alone and I’ll break my harp,/ I’ll bear my pain without singing about it;/ Because by putting it into words/ I would feel more anguish than I do in carrying it.]

_You know that’s not true. You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it._ \- JK Rowling

_Harry must not know, not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?_ \- JK Rowling

_“Where do Vanished objects go?”  
“Into non-being, which is to say, everything.”_ \- JK Rowling

_Your soul - in exchange for another. In order to obtain or create something, something of equal value must be lost or destroyed._ \- Hiromu Arakawa, _Full Metal Alchemist_

_So you know that you cannot gain anything without sacrificing something else in return. Although, if you can endure that pain and walk away from it, you'll find you have a heart strong enough to overcome any obstacle._ \- Hiromu Arakawa, _Full Metal Alchemist_

_You're missing the point! There's no throne, there is no version of this where you come out on top. Maybe your army comes and maybe it's too much for us but it's all on you. Because if we can't protect the Earth, you can be damned well sure we'll avenge it._ \- _The Avengers_

_It was - not love at first sight exactly, but - familiarity. Like: oh, hello, it's you. It's going to be you._ \- Mhairi McFarlane

_My love has abandonment issues.  
My love hates sleeping alone.  
My love, a clenched fist around your  
heart; yes, my love is that terrifying  
because it doesn’t know release.  
Imagine the moon, how she sets the ocean  
free to spill over distant shorelines only to  
clutch it back to her chest again and again.  
We call this ‘tide’.  
We call it ‘gravitational pull’.  
My love is like that —  
desperate, unapologetic.  
Except they don’t write scientific theories  
around my love; this swelling in my chest  
is too big to be understood.  
Big enough to have its own gravity  
and some nights, even strong enough  
to pull you back into my arms._ \- Anita Ofokansi

_The only thing I think we have left, Dean and me, is each other._ \- Castiel, _Supernatural_ S05E04 (original script)

_Freedom is a length of rope. God wants you to hang yourself with it._ -Castiel, _Supernatural_ S06E20

_“What are you then?” Sam asks curiously.  
Lucifer turns to face him completely.  
“Glory and fury and light and folded space,” he says.  
Sam had heard the same sort of description from Castiel, only with one noticeable exception.  
Castiel had added _love _as well._  
entangled_now, _The Fourth Wall_ (hands down one of the best _Supernatural_ fics - also writing, period - I’ve ever read)

_The more sorrow carves into your heart, the more joy it can contain._ \- Kahlil Gibran.

_Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself,  
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed:  
For love is sufficient unto love._ \- Kahlil Gibran

_I am become Death, destroyer of world._ \- _Bhagavad Gita_ , Chapter 11, Verse 31-33

[These words (Krishna’s answer to prince Arjuna’s terrified question) were very famously quoted by Oppenheimer concerning the nuclear bomb. As a Sanskrit scholar, Oppenheimer probably translated the verses himself, but most modern translations lean more in favour of _I am Time_ , rather than _Death_. Still, a beautiful line from a beautiful poem.]

_As for me, I am in your hands; do with me as you think best. - Jeremiah_ , 26:14

_Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. - Psalm_ 23

_I lift up my eyes to the mountains: where does my help come from?  
My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth. - Psalm_ 121

_So will My word be which goes forth from My mouth; It will not return to Me empty, without accomplishing what I desire, and without succeeding in the matter for which I sent it. - Isaiah_ 55:11

[Dean’s pledge to Cas is also from the _Bible_ , mostly from the the _Song of Songs_ , but I picked and mixed a little.]

_Robbers of the world, having by their universal plunder exhausted the land, they rifle the deep. If the enemy be rich, they are rapacious; if he be poor, they lust for dominion; neither the east nor the west has been able to satisfy them. Alone among men they covet with equal eagerness poverty and riches. To robbery, slaughter, plunder, they give the lying name of empire; they make a solitude and call it peace._ \- Calgacus’ speech, as quoted by Tacitus

_I did not (may the gods love me) think it mattered,  
whether I might be smelling Aemilius’ mouth or arse.  
The one’s no cleaner, the other’s no dirtier,  
in fact his arse is both cleaner and nicer:  
since it’s no teeth._ \- Catullus, _Carmen 97 (To Aemilius)_


End file.
